Spencer

by Pamela Sargent

Spencer, the cat who shares my house, was born in Northville, New York, a small town in the Adirondack Mountains, in the late spring of 1983. (Northville, as it happens, was the setting for a two-part episode of "The X- Files" broadcast in the spring of 1997.) He introduced himself that summer to my sister Connie and me as we were strolling around town by running up to us, meowing, then climbing up a tree. He was then about six to eight weeks old and, with his long black and white fur, green eyes, oversized paws, and black nose, exceptionally cute.

We could not resist the little guy. We kept returning to that street during our walk, and this kitten continued to follow us, climb the tree, leap back down, and roll around at our feet. Eventually, Spencer's owner, a bearded bruiser well over six feet tall and carrying at least three hundred pounds, pulled up in his truck; seeing how besotted we were with his kitten, he insisted that we take Spencer with us. We later discovered that this man had quite a record for assault and various other crimes, and was considered a tough customer, something I am glad we didn't know when we were telling him how absolutely adorable his kitten was.

My mother, entranced by this kitten when we returned to her house to discuss possible homes for him, decided that she wanted to keep him, and gave him his name--Spencer, after the actor Spencer Tracy. (An earlier family cat, Bogie, had been named for Humphrey Bogart, my father's favorite actor.) Spencer had come into her life just when she would need the consolation of an animal companion. We were, all of us, looking after my father during what was to be his last illness. Only a month after my mother took Spencer in, my father died. It helped, my mother admitted later, to know that she would not have to come home to a completely empty house; her cat--their cat--would be there. That this cat also came from Northville, where my father had spent summers during his childhood and where his father--my grandfather--had been chief engineer in charge of creating the Sacandaga Reservoir (now Great Sacandaga Lake), gave Spencer a special place in her life.

Spencer was to shed the winning, affectionate personality he had shown us as a kitten to become an aloof, arrogant, but highly intelligent adult cat, although he has retained some of his kittenish playfulness. It is my firm belief that he knew Connie and me for a couple of suckers when he first spotted us, and that he made up his mind then and there to escape his more limited circumstances in Northville. But it is his intelligence that has won me over and enabled me to overlook his colder side; observing him and interacting with him, I often get the feeling that he is struggling to transcend his catness, that he is trying to communicate with us, to break through the barrier that separates human beings and cats. I have engaged in dialogues of meows with him that can last a couple of minutes before he gives up in disgust, probably wondering why his people can't meow properly. He is, like most cats, extremely sensitive to moods; he knows when I am depressed even before I have admitted it to myself. He despises other cats; Connie hypothesizes that he is appalled at how stupid some cats can be, and considers himself their superior. As a kitten, he quickly learned how to jump up on a toilet seat and pee into the bowl, as well as how to open certain doorknobs with his front paws. I sometimes wonder if he thinks he is a human being in feline form.

And when he is affectionate, deigning to hop into your lap or nestle on the sofa nearby, you feel as though you have been given a great gift.

Spencer gave my mother years of faithful companionship, and showed great affection to my grandmother during her last few years, after she moved into my mother's home. (I have often thought it was my grandmother he loved best, in spite of the fact that she played the violin, an instrument Spencer loathes.) When my mother fell in love, got married again, and moved to an area where keeping Spencer would have been hazardous to his health (too many dogs running around loose in the neighborhood), Connie took him in for a winter, and then George Zebrowski and I inherited him after we moved to the Albany area. He lives with us now, an elderly cat but still healthy and vigorous. He is, after all, a member of my family.

SPENCER: 1983-2000

by Pamela Sargent

Spencer, our cherished animal companion, died on May 15, 2000 at the Delmar Animal Hospital outside of Albany, New York. Even though a trip to the veterinarian's was enough to make him howl (it often took a half hour to get him into his carrying case, and the vet usually had to call in an assistant wearing protective gloves and a chest protector to hold him down and keep him from scratching when he had his annual checkup and shots), he was very calm that morning, even contemplative, during the ride there.

Photo by George Zebrowski

Dr. Carrie O'Loughlin, who treated him earlier that year for an abscess, was the veterinarian in attendance. Spencer died peacefully, without protest, struggle, or a single meow, after Dr. O'Loughlin gave him a shot of anesthesia. I was able to stay with him during his passing and afterwards, so he passed away in my arms.

George and I had noticed about a month earlier that Spencer was losing physical mobility, stumbling more than usual, and having much more trouble going up and down stairs. He had been slowing down for some time, but this lack of mobility and clumsiness was much worse than anything we'd seen earlier. A week before his death, he began refusing to eat and was vomiting two or three times a day, usually right after drinking water. At first we thought (and were hoping) that this meant only that he had caught and eaten some prey outside, but we were just kidding ourselves; the little guy was getting much too slow to catch anything, and at least one of us was always with him to keep an eye on him whenever he went out of doors. After consulting my medical guide for cats, and observing his symptoms, I suspected that he was suffering from acute kidney failure. Dr. O'Loughlin had warned us when treating him for his abscess, and having a chance then to examine him thoroughly, that his kidneys were very small and didn't look that great, and that his kidneys were likely to be the eventual cause of his demise, and I now think that she was gently trying to let us know that he might not be around that much longer. A couple of days before his last visit to the vet's, his abscess had opened up again, and it is possible that this was a sign of a serious underlying problem, probably a cancer, and Dr. O'Loughlin admitted in the end that she had worried about that possibility earlier.

We did everything we could to make Spencer's last week as pleasant as possible; I think both George and I knew that it would be his last week and that there would be nothing a vet could do to treat him that wouldn't just cause him unnecessary suffering and pain, although I think we were in denial about that. One of us (often both of us) was always awake and around to watch over him, so he was never alone. We gave him fresh water, and he kept that down, but ate no food at all right up to the end; my guess is that he sensed it was time to cash in. He spent most of his time sleeping and the rest of the time reclining in Sphinx mode by the refrigerator in the kitchen or on his favorite cushion in the downstairs hallway, looking very much as if he were meditating. Happily the weather was beautiful during that last week, warm and sunny, and he was able to visit my next door neighbor's garden, a favorite spot, with George trailing behind him and my neighbor, a cat lover herself, also looking out for him. Right up to the end, Spencer tried to act as he always had, even wandering into the dining room on Sunday night to sit near George and meow for a handout of crumbs, something he had not done for days.

Spencer went peacefully, while he was still himself, and without prolonged suffering, and in a merciful fashion that our barbaric culture still denies to human beings. Dr. O'Loughlin said that it was time, and that it was the right decision, and that his poor little body was very close to giving up. He was a great cat, and he lived for seventeen years; he had a good long life spent mostly in excellent health, and he brought a lot of joy and happiness to several people in his human family. That has to count as a good life for a member of any species.