The Summer of Henry



A young, healthy Henry.

Summer…..the word conjures up different images for each individual. For me, the word “summer” often brings back sweet memories of a black and white cat named Henry.

Henry was born into a rainbow litter of kittens in 1999.  No two looked alike. At the time, I was living east of Perry with my husband and two daughters. Most of Henry’s littermates remained distant, but Henry always loved human attention, especially my attention. His full name was Henry Bodine and as a young cat he kept me company while I read and studied in the backyard.

Henry was a gentle spirit with the most docile eyes. He had a pronounced overbite that emphasized the little fang on the left side of his mouth. I often called him my little Pirate cat, because an infection, early in his life, had caused his front leg to grow crooked. It made him walk with a limp and he reminded me of a peg-legged Pirate. Henry was an outside cat, since indoor pets were not tolerated by my husband.  But Henry would try to sneak inside the house.  He acted as if he belonged inside with the family…with me.

I left the house east of Perry in the winter of 2010. At the time, I had every intention of going back within a few days to get Henry and bring him to the little yellow house where I had found my refuge. He was going to be part of my comfort and help me deal with the grief of losing my old home and old relationship.  He would be a great friend for Jennie, the black Labrador retriever.  But I soon became fearful about bringing him.  Was it fair to move him to an environment that he did not know?  An environment where coyotes and feral tomcats were often present?  For many reasons I won’t mention here, Henry stayed at my former house. I knew he was being fed and cared for on a regular basis.

Several years passed before Henry and I were reunited in March of 2014.  I had gone to my former home in November of the previous year to get more of my personal belongings and Henry seemed fine.  Older and thinner, but rather healthy for his age.  It was good to see him. He seemed content even though he was distant and refused to let me pick him up. But when I went back in March to get the remainder of my things, Henry came running to me.  He made a little sound….a half meow….a pre-purr.  He came across the carport making that sound, calling to me.  He was terribly thin and the end of his right ear was missing. I suspected it had been lost in a fight or an accident.  Henry begged for me to pick him up. When I did, I could feel his bones protruding prominently against my hands. He seemed hungry and when I put dry food out in his dish he struggled to eat.  I found a can of salmon, opened it, and placed it in his dish.  He licked up the juice quickly and ate some of the meat.  He tried to come inside the house several times as I loaded items into the car. Then, I caught him trying to get in the car.  He wanted to go with me.

After that day, I couldn’t stop thinking about Henry….about how he must feel abandoned.  So….two days later I went back to get him.  I got out of the car and called for him.  At first there was no response, but then I heard his familiar meow.  I looked toward the barn and there came Henry….hobbling along on his crooked leg.  I gathered him up, put him in the pet carrier, and started our journey to the little yellow house where he would live out his days.  

I brought Henry home and put him in the sun room.  The vet suggested keeping him away from my other cats, so he couldn't be in the main part of the house. He was curious about his new surroundings and seemed grateful that he didn’t have to find a warm place to sleep outside….no freezing temperatures, no worrying about predators, no searching for food to eat, no hungry tummy, no thirsty throat…..all his needs met. The first night he slept on a log of firewood in the sunroom. It took him a couple of days to realize that the futon or the chair were much more comfortable.

Henry’s health was not as good as it appeared when I brought him home. He had a bladder infection ….then his allergies caused him to pull the hair out on his back….then his crooked paw got infected….then his ear got infected.  He was on medicine for about a month and I soaked his paw in Epsom saltwater twice a day.  He got addicted to his pain medicine and had to go through withdrawals. He was a picky eater and I bought dozens of gourmet foods to try to tempt him. All the effort was worth it! Eventually, his health returned and his coat was once again shiny and smooth. The only remaining issue was his ear.

A few months later, his ear began to bleed more often. It was getting smaller and the edge would actually break off. My local veterinarian diagnosed the problem. Henry had cancer. What I had suspected was an injury from a fight or accident, was actually cancer. And the cancer was literally eating away his ear. Dr. Dormire told me that the cancer would continue to devour Henry’s ear, but that he wasn’t currently in any pain. She said he might have a few weeks or a few months left, depending on the rate that the cancer spread. Surgery wasn’t a viable option because of his age and his health history, so I took Henry home and decided that I would do everything I could to keep him happy and healthy for the remainder of his life.

He was so affectionate.  There was no evidence that he had been an outside cat that wouldn’t let me hold him. He let me pick him up without fear or concern no matter where we were.  When I would sit on the patio, he would lay down and reach his paw out to touch my hand and he loved to run his head up under my chin.

I slept in the sun room a couple of nights a week when I brought him home.  He would climb up on me before I could even get the covers situated.  He liked to lay on my shoulder, close to my face and often I would feel his paw touching my cheek. As the cancer took its toll, he lost control of his bladder and his ear bled more often. At that point, I couldn’t sleep with him. The last time I tried, he had a difficult time climbing on the futon, much less up on me.  He was unsteady and seemed unsure and didn’t relax.  Eventually he stopped sleeping on the futon and I placed an old quilt on the floor for him.  He used it for a few days, but he decided that the folded rug suited him better.  It was right by the back door of the sunroom and he seemed most comfortable in that spot.

We transitioned to the two of us spending many hours outside each day. We would sit on the porch every morning for about an hour. Henry would snuggled on my lap after I ate my breakfast or would lay in the morning sun while I read. In the evenings, he would follow me around the yard while I worked or he would climb up on my lap while I watched the sunset. But weekends were the best! I would lay a quilt down under a shade tree, add a couple of pillows, and we would nap. Often I would write or read and Henry would sleep on the quilt or in the grass nearby. Hot weather didn’t bother him and I came to tolerate it.  Often we would spend all day outside.

When the weather was cold or rainy, I would read or watch movies while Henry snuggled up on my lap in the sunroom.  We had great times together.  I started leaving Henry outside during the day, even when I wasn’t at home. He was obviously happier being outside and he never strayed out of the yard. When I drove in the driveway, Henry would come walking or running toward my car, his front leg stiff and contorted as he moved….my little Pirate cat. 

One morning, Henry was sitting on my lap on the front porch. He seemed restless, like he couldn’t get comfortable.  I started playing some Reiki and Meditation music on my phone.  It was amazing….his breathing slowed and became very consistent. He calmed down and laid across my lap where he fell asleep.  Henry stayed in a deep, relaxed sleep for about 30 minutes. It was a beautiful thing to witness. 

As the weeks passed, his health continued to decline.  The cancer had reduced his ear to about a quarter of its original size and his appetite was greatly diminished and we made regular trips to the veterinarian for cortisone shots. On one trip to the vet, I put my fingers through the wire of the carrier door.  He nuzzled my fingers with his head then brought his paw up and wrapped it around my fingers.  

I had taken Henry in for a cortisone shot on a hot August afternoon. He was obviously not doing well and was in pain.  Dr. Dormire was concerned because Henry had lost so much muscle mass she had a hard time giving him the shot. That evening Henry was restless and couldn’t find a way to be comfortable.  He would lay in the grass for a few minutes, then get up and change positions.  He didn’t want to be on me, which was not usual. I could tell he didn’t feel well.  As we sat outside on the back patio watching the sunset, the evening sky filled with dragonflies!  They dove and darted through the air. I believe they were there to tell both of us that it was time.  They were encouraging Henry to shed his earthly body and to be free.  I made the decision that evening to take him to the vet the next morning. 

 With the arrival of the next day, Henry seemed better. But, he seemed desperate for me.  He ate, but still not enough to sustain him.   He wanted to be held, but would run quickly for a drink of water every 5-10 minutes.  Then he would run back to get on my lap again.  It was as if he needed reassurance or comforting.  On the ride to the vet, he meowed a lot and kept bumping my hand with his head.  When we arrived at the vet clinic waiting room, he wanted out of the carrier.  I took him out and he crawled up on my shoulder and nuzzled me with his head.  I think he was consoling me.  He was making sure I knew he loved me, but I think he was ready to leave the pain behind.   

I left on a scheduled trip the day I took Henry to the vet for the last time. I was devastated and cried much of the drive to Austin. I dreaded going home the following Sunday. I dreaded driving up to the house for the first time. I dreaded dealing with all of the reminders of Henry. I made it home and began to cry as I drove up to the house. After unloading my luggage, I walked outside and sat on the back patio…..the exact place that Henry and I had spent many hours watching the sunsets. I looked up and demanded a sign….any type of sign that Henry was okay….that I would be okay. Within minutes of making my demand, a lone dragonfly flew in circles around my head then hovered in front of me, just slightly higher than my head. It stayed there for about 10 seconds, then flew away. It was my sign!

I am so grateful for the months I had with Henry.  He showed me unconditional love.  He taught me about compassion and dedication.  Henry taught me to value each and every day….to look for the little details in life….to slow down and pay attention. His last days were filled with intense emotions….regret, sorrow, grief, happiness, joy, fear, but mostly love.  These weren’t his emotions.  I have no way of knowing what he felt or knew about what was happening.  The emotions were mine. 

I had Henry cremated.  His ashes are in a small oak box that sits on the bookcase in my bedroom. A picture of him in his younger, healthier years leans lazily against the box. The inscription on the box says, “Henry…my sweet, sweet boy”.