One afternoon in 2019, I heard a cat meowing from my neighbor’s yard. She was an adult black and white cat, round in the belly, laying in the grass. It’s not an unusual thing that stray or feral cats transgress through the yards of my street. I had never seen this cat before. I said in a hushed voice “Shoo, shoo…the neighbor doesn’t like cats!”  The cat went away, and I figured I’d never see her again.

I went on to feed the feral calico cat in my yard, a resident for quite a few years.

The next day, I went out into my yard, and the same black and white tuxedo cat I had seen the day before came seemingly out of nowhere. She started rubbing my legs and meowing loudly!  She was hungry. I fed her. I asked the neighbor across the street if she knew this cat, as she knew all the neighborhood cats and fed them as they came through. She did not know this cat. Thinking that she might be someone’s missing pet, I posted notices and photos on local social media. Nobody responded except for one person, who confirmed that this wasn’t her cat. The cat was friendly, she jumped in my lap and purred, and knew humans could feed her. She must have been around people at some point!

The cat jumped in my lap. I had an idea: scan the cat for a chip. I grabbed my carrier and put on gloves because I did not know what this cat had, or where she had been . I took her to the PetSmart store where I volunteer for the cat rescue. I borrowed their scanner, and nothing. No chip found.

I released the cat back into my yard. Maybe she’ll find her way home. She didn’t. She was still around.

It was October, and the days were getting colder. I felt guilty. This friendly cat deserved a home.

I already had 2 indoor cats in my house. They were older, into their teens. I didn’t know how many years, or even months, I still had with them. Maybe this cat was sent to me for a reason. I wasn’t actively looking for a cat. But she found me.

I took the cat in and isolated her in a bedroom until I could get a clinic visit booked. With a rounded belly, I was terrified that she was pregnant. I knew nothing about birthing kittens.

Finally, I got a clinic appointment. I had to put down a name. I put down “Francie” because I found her on October 4^th, the feast day of St. Francis.  They tested for feline leukemia and feline AIDS. Both came back negative- hooray! The proper vaccines were given, and a vet examined her. The exam went very well.

There was no pregnancy. Because SHE was a HE!

Turns out this cat was a neutered male who was a bit overweight. Someone already neutered him and let him go??  Why? His ears were not tipped- a tipped/clipped ear is a marking made by trappers who trap, neuter/spay and release feral cats to indicate that the cat is fixed.  Where he came from and why would remain a mystery.

He was renamed Frankie. I decided to keep him.  He became a part of my family.

He had a real penchant for eating. He’d actually open my cabinet doors and find his treats. He loved catnip toys. He loved to lay on my chest, and he got along with my other 2 cats. He purred and “made biscuits” with his big white toes.

Within 6 months of taking him in, both my older cats died of illness in a short time apart- one from heart failure, and one from a stroke. It was early 2020.

I adopted Abbey in April 2020, in the middle of the pandemic, the spunky, sweet young black and white female cat from the rescue – the same one at Petsmart. She adapted to my home almost instantly. She and Frankie were a good pair.

I called Frankie “my baby boy.” He slept on my bed every night. He was a big boy, and it was a challenge to get his weight down. He was more of a lie around cat than a run around cat. I never really knew his true age, but he was estimated to be around 6 to 8 years old.

It was all good- until late Spring of 2023. I noticed his coat was not shiny, he had hair loss, and he had been urinating a lot. My instincts told me to get him looked at. His bloodwork revealed diabetes.  He was started on insulin and took the shots like a trooper. He was an excellent patient and they all loved him at the vet clinic and called him “handsome boy.”  Within 2 months, his sugar was under control, and with a change in diet, I got him in remission. The victory celebration was short-lived though.

By June, I noticed another problem. He was drooling. I figured it was a dental issue and took him back to the vet clinic. The doctor said the teeth were fine, but she noticed a growth under the tongue. She said it was very concerning for cancer. I could tell by the way she said it, she was almost sure. She even said, “I’m sorry.” He was biopsied that day, and a week later the lab confirmed the worst. The doctor called me with the bad news, and we talked about making him comfortable. I hung up, looked at Frankie and fell apart.

Oral cancer is terribly aggressive in cats. It is rare that it is even treated because the prognosis is so poor, and even if it is treated, recurrence is very likely. It spreads to the mouth and jaw, leaving the cat in pain, drooling, bleeding and unable to eat. It is horrible. The life expectancy is only 2 to 3 months.

I spent the next weeks feeding him the best I could- trying liquid foods, using droppers and so forth. His eating diminished.  His weight dropped rapidly. I was constantly cleaning him and cleaning up after him because the drooling had gotten worse. I put towels on myself so he could continue to snuggle on me. I felt like a hospice nurse and it was emotionally draining.  One blessing came of this: he lost enough weight to comfortably jump into and fit in my front window- which he hadn’t gone in for a long time. At least he was able to enjoy something. I prayed a lot during this time- not for him to get better, because I knew that wouldn’t happen. I prayed for strength to get through this. My anxiety was eating at me. Every time I left the house, I feared I’d find him dead when I returned. I installed cameras to keep watch on my phone when I wasn’t home.

Finally, he changed to where I can see that his quality of life was getting worse. He was uncomfortable, and starving because he couldn’t eat despite my best efforts. He moved a lot less. His eyes and fur didn’t have the spark they once had. He wasn’t able to close his mouth, and the bleeding was more frequent. It was inhumane to keep him like this.

It was time to relieve him.

It was late August, and I decided to stay through the whole process. Dropping him off and leaving him- as if he was some kind of package- seemed wrong. I owed him dignity. Despite the offers, I chose not to have anyone come with me, as I wanted silence and alone time with him.  I spent my last hours with him in the “comfort room” of the clinic. The room had comfortable chairs, a tissue box, low lighting and the Rainbow Bridge poem on the wall.  The staff was extremely compassionate and explained everything.  He was given a sedative.  The doctor came in and injected the chemicals needed for him to leave this earth. He went peacefully and they gave me imprints of his paws to take home. I kissed his head and left.

Beforehand, the staff said I could leave quietly any time- no questions asked, if it became too much. I feared that I would. But I didn’t. Instead, I felt like I was giving pastoral care to him, and myself. I felt support and strength that I didn’t expect, and a feeling of peace. Though very sad, I felt closure and peace of mind knowing I was there- seeing and knowing exactly what was happening to him and for how long.

As a tribute, I donated his leftover insulin and syringes to the clinic.

I only had 3 and half years with him.  I felt cheated as I expected to have at least 10 years. It wasn’t fair. But he taught me a lot.  I learned that I was stronger than I thought. I learned that prayer helped me give me that strength. I learned to not take any moments with your pet for granted. I do not regret for one minute that I took him in. I know I made his last few years of life better than if I had left him out in the streets. He was sent to me for a reason- he needed to be saved, I needed him to get me through losing two cats. “Who rescued who?” as they say.

Frankie, you were such a good boy. You are missed.