"I want a divorce," I said. There, it was out. It was a bit more forceful than I had wanted to be, but there it was. The truth.
He stared at me from the back seat, silent. It was the first time he'd been silent in the back seat. I had threatened to go to the professionals and here we were, on our way.
I signalled left and pulled into the parking lot, slowing the minivan. "I could live with the other stuff, but the kids? Hitting the kids? And not just ours, but the neighbours'? What were you thinking?"
He remained silent. His one good eye glowed in the half light like the Terminator. I was incensed, and I wanted answers.
"Good afternoon," the secretary greeted me.
"Hello, we're here for a 3 o'clock appointment," I said.
"Have you seen us before?"
"No." I had wanted to go to a neutral party, a new person.
I filled out the requisite paperwork. He was still silent. We went into the clinical room.
"What brings you here today?" the doctor asked.
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I relayed our history in an agitated tone. "Ever since we had kids, nothing has been the same. His personality is completely different. I know I don't have time to give him all the affection he wants, but obviously I am a bit busy."
"He doesn't understand that," she said.
"I know that. But hitting? What do you think is going on?"
"Honestly? It sounds like feline dementia."
I took a deep breath. "I thought it could be."
Beaker is getting on in years. Fifteen this summer, he's no spring chicken. But he's been there for me longer than my husband has, and we've travelled the world. I am simultaneously mad with him and concerned for his health.
The doctor gave me a few options. Put him down, not really an option unless he is seriously ill. Get him an air diffuser with lavender, said to calm cats. I am open to most things, even the crystal/horoscope/moonbeam kind of things, but a room diffuser for my cat? I waffled.
"You could find a home for him without kids," she said.
I had thought of that. In fact I had discussed it at length with a few friends.
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I had tried to write up an honest Craigslist ad for a new home. Cat, male tabby. Almost 15, but still healthy. Blind in one eye. Excellent teeth and coat. Has a problem with overeating. A binge and purge type, so brown carpeting is a must. Pees very high on the litter box so must have an industrial-sized one, with a lid. Eats plastic things, especially bags. Eats all plants but succulents. Alpha male, so the fewer animals or kids you have the better. May treat children to bongo drumming on their heads if they get too close. Bites if provoked. May at times launch himself onto your back for no reason, while purring. Yodels after midnight. Can break through screens of any type. Excellent watch cat, unless the robber is sitting on the couch, in which case he will envelop the robber's lap and legs until they are numb, rendering the person incapacitated, which would be useful.
At this point I stopped. I was grasping at straws and there was no one who would want this cat.
In his younger years, Beaker inspired at least three of my friends to get cats. He had an amazing personality, aggressive and loving, proud and kittenish. He was an avid spider killer, bat chaser and bee crusher. All this from the tomcat who was kept indoors.
I felt bad about that, but I loved him too much to think of parting with him at the wheels of a car or by the teeth of a hungry coyote. He moved with me, everywhere. When my husband had to leave for work in England, I stayed in Toronto six extra months so Beaker wouldn't have to be quarantined on arrival over concerns about rabies.
Now in Vancouver, we have settled. Some of us have anyway. Other members of the family are resisting the growing clan and ever-present noise and diaper smells.
I left the veterinarian's office defeated. I had no plan. I wanted out of the relationship, but couldn't bear to think of myself as one of those people. You know, the type who chuck their cat as soon as they become inconvenient. Beaker has been inconvenient the whole time.
If I get rid of him, who will sit by my bath and purr? Who will roll on their back like a baby harp seal, pleading for petting? Who will smash into my legs at 6 in the morning, reminding me to feed him? He has been a great confidant, friend and support. He knows when I'm down and sits on my lap, warming me, asking no questions.
The past few weeks have been better. We seem to have turned a corner after the big "talk." Beaker knew I meant business, that it was do or die time. There has been no hissing or hitting, no feline freaking out. He will sit close to the baby, watching. He seems to be warming to her. He lets my three-year-old play games with him. He understands that his place is with me, and the rest of us, too.
I vow to take care of my aging cat. After all, it may be me who gets dementia, and I hope my husband won't leave me on a doorstep in a box: Free to a good home. May bite if provoked.
Erin MacNair lives in Vancouver.
Illustration by Emily Flake.