There is a wonderful episode of “The Wonder Years” (aren’t they all?) that centers around Buster, the Arnold family’s dog. At the end, Daniel Stern’s voiceover walks viewers through the years, as Buster sits at the door waiting for Kevin to come home from the prom, watches from the window as he leaves for college, and so on.
I could not help but think of that Saturday morning while driving back from Kansas City, moments after my wife called to give me the sad news: Our beloved cat Cookie, better known as Cook Dogg by me and numerous other names by the rest of our family, had kidney failure.
I am grateful now that I had that hour, because I cried during most of the trip back to Topeka. I rarely cry, save for watching my old man suffer during the final few months of his life or the occasional Royals win in a World Series. But, man, I could not turn off the faucet this morning.
Like Buster, Cookie was there for all the special moments in our family. She greeted me within minutes of arriving at Shana’s apartment for our first date and was in the bedroom when I proposed. She was with us for four graduations, including for my master’s degree. She saw my daughter off to Mizzou, celebrated Rory, Brody and Molly’s first jobs, and tolerated the next-level extroversion of my granddaughter.
Cookie really lived the American Dream for a cat. We are not exactly sure when or where she was born, but it was sometime in 2008. She came to my wife and kids in 2009, rescued from a dumpster, two years before Shana and I even began dating.
Not only was Cookie surrounded by love, fun and warmth, but she also lived like a queen. We fed her top-tier cat food, including some expensive soft stuff in the final few months, and she drank filtered water. Her only trips outside were when we moved and when she would mischievously wander outside when we left the door open for more than .3 seconds.
Cookie meant something different to each of us. My wife saw her as a feisty, independent confidant (game respects game). When he was young, Brody took to the Cookie like an emotional support animal. He is the only person we ever saw Cookie hug. Rory pet the cat perhaps more than anybody, seeing her as his buddy. Molly saw her as the sister she never had.
I saw Cookie as a diva, but I loved her feistiness. We played a lot, especially when she was younger. When I came home from work, she would sprint across the house, jump in a chair and wait for me to tussle with her. Not once did she bite or scratch too hard. She was smart enough to know we were just playing.
My fondest memory of Cookie came during one of the most difficult times of my life. When I was ill and essentially bed-ridden in 2016 due to an Epstein-Barr Virus reactivation, there were three daily constants: 1. The overwhelming fatigue that comes with EBV. 2. My loving wife being strong for both of us. 3. The Cook Dogg, who laid next to me virtually the entire time, only taking breaks for meals or to use the litter box. It was then that I realized the aloof Cookie more than gave a shit. She really cared.
Today was tough. We knew Cookie was struggling. She slowed down considerably in the past few weeks, had goopy eyes and was not eating much. She was so lethargic this morning that we quickly rearranged our plans. I drove Rory to Kansas City, and Molly and Shana took the cat to the vet.
As difficult as it was to see Cookie during her final moments, curled up in the corner of an unfamiliar office, I will always remember her purring loudly, acknowledging that her family was there. And I will always remember that we got to see her off, just as she did thousands of times.