The Return of Zorro

I can’t count the number of times Zorro was taken to the vet nor the number of blood tests that were done that showed slight elevations here or there, but as the very concerned vet explained, “There is nothing definitive, nothing that points to why his health is deteriorating. Even so, he has remarkable energy.”

And so, he was remarkable. He was born in our garage with two other siblings to a feral calico cat who looked as if she had given birth to variations of only those colors displayed in her own coat: orange and white, gray and white and finally, Zorro who was a black and white Tuxedo cat. It took six weeks to entice them indoors.

Zorro of course looked like he was wearing a black patch over each eye. He was so fast that all that was visible behind the cardboard boxes in the garage was a glimpse of his clear green eyes. He began as plump as a plush toy and ended as the smallest and thinnest of his siblings.

He never failed to catch the stray mouse or lizard that ran the marathon across their protected outside room. He was, in a word, ferocious when it came to food, all food. An unprotected dinner plate was an invitation to steal. His favorite meal was tuna fish. Zorro was also known for taking food from other cats.

As small and as thin as Zorro became, his energy overcame any obstacle. He had incredible speed and learned to snatch what he wanted, whether it was a bite of fresh salmon or the blue ball with the bell inside. He did not have normal power; he had the power of determination to keep what he was slowly losing which was his health, his strength and finally his tremendous stamina.

That extraordinary stamina was also applied to his need for affection. He would interrupt the brushing of another cat to get more strokes for himself. He never tired of snuggling up against other cats. Watching tv meant having one arm free to constantly pet Zorro and scratch the top of his head.

His health was never steady. Each morning I would check for the look which meant Zorro’s back would be raised, his tail tightly curled around his frail body and his expression was pensive. This was his look of pain. This would mean another visit to the vet, more tests, and finally, I simply did healing after healing.

I could not stop the slow, inevitable internal destruction, but the pain could be controlled. Perhaps that helped Zorro’s determination to live for six and a half years. I believe this was much longer than the life he genetically inherited. Zorro just loved being alive.

My husband and I knew something was wrong when Zorro climbed into a lower kitchen cupboard and stayed for hours, then hid in the pantry overnight. Within three days, his body began a swift decline as if sheer will power could no longer hold the flesh and bone from collapsing. He began losing interest in food. Then he would only drink water.

The telltale yellow color inside his ears, on his nose and inside his mouth announced the failure of his liver. My husband could not sleep and I slept with Zorro resting on my chest. I wanted him to know how loved he was by my heartbeat and the movement of my breathing with his own.

Within three days he could no longer walk. This morning he quietly left. He silently coughed and the movement of his heart and lungs stopped. Although my hand on his fur felt warm, I knew Zorro had returned from where he began this journey, and I gave thanks for having his presence in our life.