Fast Eddie(Requiem)

Fast Eddie had just turned eighteen when I woke up to a quiet howling on Sunday morning two weeks ago. He had kidney disease and was thin as a rail, but until that morning, he was eating, drinking, peeing, and pooping. Most importantly, he still purred while wiggling his way past the other cats and dogs to either lie on my belly or sleep next to me. Fast Eddie was in agony, and I knew then that we were about to part ways. Every animal I have loved has told me when it was time to go. And that morning was no different. He had loved me with all his heart, and in return, I owed him a way out of pain and suffering.

Finding an open vet clinic on a Sunday can be tricky, especially in a small town, so thank God for Coronado Veterinary Hospital. It was 8 am when I called to make an appointment. Ron drove as I held Fast Eddie in my lap. “It’s okay, Baby. It’s okay,” I repeated over and over while his big, amber eyes searched mine.

When the examining room door flung open, I was relieved to see my friend Bonnie, a talented writer who also happens to be a veterinarian. “Beth, my God! I am so sorry.”

I had managed to hold myself together until I saw her. Ron stepped to the side, so Bonnie and I could hug each other. She stroked the top of Fast Eddie’s head. “He is so lucky to have lived his life with you,” she said.

Crying, I said, “This is so hard.”

“It’s impossible,” Bonnie said.

There is no need to mention what happened next. If you have ever put down a beloved pet, then you know. And if you haven’t, you are blessed beyond measure.

I found Fast Eddie, a grey tabby, while on a run out in the desert near my house. He was maybe four weeks old and skin and bones. Not at all interested in my rescue techniques, he swatted at me from under a creosote bush. “I’ll be right back,” I said.

I ran home, grabbed a can of tuna, and to my delight, he hadn’t left the shade of the creosote. I popped open the top, and Fast Eddie came running. He was so small that he fit into the can. Ravenous, he was covered in tuna by the time we got home. In a week, he doubled in size, and it soon became apparent that he was a tomcat better suited for a life chasing field mice and lizards in the desert than one of domestic leisure, with one exception: He loved me. And not the kind of love most cat lovers are accustomed to from their oftentimes finicky and aloof housemates. No, Fast Eddie loved me with abandon. His loud purr was a gift he granted me any time I was within a few feet of him. He slept butted up against me and swatted at anything or anyone who got close. Throughout the years, Fast Eddie was king, and all his subjects had battle scars inflicted on them for breaking the Golden Rule: Stay away from my mommy!

I hated that he picked on the other animals and often called him out on it: “Knock it off, or you’ll end up back in the desert.” Of course, it was an empty threat, and we both knew it. So, the reign of terror carried on for years until a few months ago, when Fast Eddie finally surrendered his claws, sensing, I imagine, his fragility. And it was during this time that he became simply Eddie. “Fast” belonged to the streak of fur that disappeared every time the doorbell rang. Instead, this new Eddie was an old man who required round-the-clock care, my lap, and a blanket for warmth.

I often referred to him as That Asshole: “If That Asshole didn’t love me so much, he’d be living on the streets.” Again, this was all bluster. He was both naughty and nice. I loved to smell his ears at night while we snuggled, and I was comforted by his purring, the sound I still hear when I enter a room.

The thing about taking in and loving an animal is that each represents the beginning and end of periods in our lives, the bookends buttressing time. And in between is where life is lived and memories are forged. Eddie appeared like a noisy mirage in the desert when I was single and still a runner. It was a few weeks before foot surgery that led to more surgeries over the next two years, ending all hope of ever running again. I owned my own home on ten acres, where from my front porch, I thanked God every night for a good life while the sun set behind the saddle in the Mustang Mountains. A year after our fateful encounter, Fast Eddie accepted Ron as an unavoidable intruder when we started dating. A few years later, after Ron and I married, Fast Eddie howled for two and a half hours from a carrier in the back seat of my car on our way to our new home in Animas, New Mexico. He howled again when we moved to Sierra Vista four years later. I had Covid at the time and was so sick that I thanked Fast Eddie for the ruckus. Without him, I would have fallen asleep behind the wheel.

Charlie (background) Truffles & Fast Eddie

In the eighteen years that Eddie was my companion, I met my daughter, Kelsey, whom I gave up for adoption, and my grandchildren. My life’s greatest joy. I earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University, where I found like-minded creative souls searching for connection and understanding. Living at the ranch in Animas tested my skills and patience, and I passed with flying colors. Ron and I lived under the dark cloud of my chronic illness and his health issues for what seemed an eternity, but we are both doing better now. My mom moved to Arizona from Wisconsin, buying a home a few blocks away. I made new friends and wonder sometimes what happened to the people I used to see so often.

And there have been changes in me. In the middle of our lives, eighteen years doesn’t feel like a long time. Those years starting careers and families, buying a house, worrying about money, and taking vacations, they fly by. But those early childhood years, and then again in our fifties and beyond, our bodies dictate the things we can and cannot do. I found Fast Eddie in those middle years when I was still invincible. Now, my back aches when I’m on my feet too long. My hands hurt when it rains. I no longer care about what I wear when I run to the store, and I haven’t owned a tube of lipstick since I donned my first mask during Covid. I’m finally comfortable in my skin, even if it’s not as taut and shiny as it once was.

These were things I thought about on our drive home from the vet clinic. I also wondered if I had done enough in the eighteen years that Eddie and I shared. Had I made good decisions? Had I learned lessons? Had I been kind and available to people in my life? Did I work and love hard enough? And then the big question came, the one that sometimes wakes me in the middle of the night: Am I enough? A phantom purr vibrated against my chest—Eddie’s purr. And then I knew. In the eyes of a cranky, grey tabby, the answer is yes. Unequivocally, yes! I am enough.

Thank you, sweet boy, for loving me.