Remembering Ra: Andy's Story
Photo by Andy Lin
One night shortly after I had moved into my apartment on Stanton St, I was lying on my floor in the middle of a reiki session when I received a phone call from my girlfriend at the time. “Andy, there’s this beautiful cat outside who wants to come in.” I went down and as soon as I opened the front door, the most adorable, tiny, orange feline proceeded to wrap herself around my legs, purring. It was a coup de foudre in cat form. “Let’s see where this goes” we decided. We walked through the courtyard and up the three flights of stairs, and the beautiful, somewhat shy, somewhat brazen creature followed us all the way into the apartment. Once inside, she lay on the ground and made herself at home. That was ten years ago. It was a magical thing to have had happen.
After a short get-to-know-you period filled with bites and scratches (she was a street cat after all, and a New Yorker at that), we came to satisfactory terms. Ra followed me everywhere. She was more dog than cat. She came to me when I called. She seemingly never took her eyes off of me. She went to the bathroom when I went to the bathroom. She even *pretended* like she was going to the bathroom when I was going to the bathroom, exiting her litter box sans the normal by-products of such an activity. She always greeted me at the door when I came home, the tip of her tail bizarrely shaking in excitement like a rattlesnake’s. Sometimes I’d pick her up upon coming home, and often she would mew in complaint, but after I returned from long trips she never said a word - just purred in contentment.
When she decided it was time for her to eat in the morning, she would usually sit by my sleeping head and stare down at me for eternities, willing me to wake up with who knows what kind of weird cat mojo. When that didn’t work, she would nudge my hand with her nose, gently at first and then with increasing violence, ostensibly in correlation to the dire state of her belly’s decreasing volume. If that didn’t work, she would throw her paws up in exasperation and go back to sleep, often on my chest or back, or nestled in my armpit. A couple of times, she sat on my face to wake me up. I’m glad it didn’t become a habit.
One time, she woke me up in the middle of the night by dropping a live mouse on my face. I think she was trying to feed me, or it was a “Look what I did, dad!” moment. In any case, it was one of the most disturbing and beautiful gestures I’ve experienced. Later, she ate the mouse.
I heard something odd emanate from the kitchen one day, and walked in to find her staggering backwards and forwards on the counter with an entire coffee cup stuck on her head. She was mewling miserable coffee-cup-resonated mewls until I popped it off. “Cats don’t drink coffee,” I told her. She never did it again.
There was the time we were living on N. 6th St, when the upstairs neighbors’ pipe burst, and a waterfall came pouring out of the ceiling into our (otherwise) peaceful abode. I looked down at Ra who was looking at the waterfall, mouth totally agape, eyes big as plates, with a very visible thought-bubble above her head that read “WHAT...THE...FUCK”.
We spent hours on end trying to out-lazy each other on the couch. Some days, she actually won.
My buddy Andrew once caught her sitting in front of a window watching two squirrels have sex. She was just sitting there watching them have sex like a pervert, tail gently wagging. Is it bestiality if animals do it?
She used to let me sit her up on my chest and pick her eye-boogers and booger-boogers out for her. Which sounds like a gross thing I know, but I was always just so honored that she let me do it, because it meant that she trusted me in such an intimate way.
The night Ra came into my life, I was in the middle of giving myself reiki when I got the call from Robyn. I was reiki-ing my heart, in fact. And what’s interesting is that anytime I ever did reiki on my heart from then on in, Ra would come to me from wherever she was in the house. Our hearts were, and continue to be, connected.
I thought I had lost her at the end of January, when I got back from Sundance. But we put her on steroids and she gave me another two months. Most people don’t get the opportunity to say goodbye to someone or something they love. I got two months to do it. At the end, the lymphoma proved too much; it took over her cranial nerves. She lost sight in her left eye and motor function in her jaw, developed a kind of head tic and lost control of her urinary tract. I hand-fed her and gave her liquids subcutaneously, as she lost the ability to eat or drink on her own. Even then all she wanted to do was lay next to me, wherever I was, and I was happy to comply. I thought for a long time that I was keeping her alive during those two months for her sake, but towards the end I realized she was probably keeping herself alive for mine.
I am so honored that this incredible being came into my life, who chose me of all people to be the one to feed her, to shelter her, to watch over her, to care for her in her last days, and eventually to make the final call when the time came to end her life. I spent many moments in awe of our connection to each other. I am profoundly grateful for all the experiences and love she brought to me. My cat made me a better person.
For all the countless memories I have of my cat, the enduring one I'll have of her was also the earliest. That first night in the wee hours of the morning, inviting her up the stairs, her at the bottom looking up at me with the biggest, brightest loving eyes I can remember seeing, right before she entered my life.
Submitted by Andy Lin, creator of The Self-Portrait Project. Thank you so much for sharing your story, Andy. It made our hearts swell.
Some of the most important parts of pet parenthood are our memories, moments, or celebrations together. It could be adopting a pet and starting a life together, or the heartbreak when you must say goodbye. You can share your story by drafting it yourself, or hit me up to interview you. Email monpetitchewchew@gmail.com and we can get started.