CLEVELAND HEIGHTS, Ohio — Odin was one of the most human-like (i.e. clever, social, loving and often manipulative) cats I have ever known.
When he first came to us, he rubbed against my leg to butter me up. My wife, Michele, said that we already had four cats and didn’t have room for another. She returned him to a neighbor, but he found his way back.
He ran over to me when I knelt down to greet him again, only to dash past me and straight to my wife. He had chosen his human.
The two had an amazing bond. He was there at her side constantly when she needed abdominal surgery, sleeping in her arms (and sometimes on her face).
The Taylor cats await the go-ahead to go upstairs for dinner. From top to bottom: Bianca, Puck, Little Boop, Odin and Henry.Photo Courtesy of Cyrus O. Taylor
He showed the same compassion to our other cats when they had medical issues. When Puck lost his leg to cancer, Odin would still play with him but always respected the space where his leg would be, just to keep the play-fight fair.
When Little Boop started having seizures, Odin would stay with him and watch over Boop (it turns out he had a pine allergy that was triggering various health problems).
When Henry was diagnosed with intestinal small-cell lymphoma, Odin would wait outside the door while Henry ate his special hypo-allergenic meals.
Odin was incredibly clever, too. He discovered that the best way to get the attention of one of his parents was to get someone else to do it. I’m typically the one who feeds the cats; when Odin would get hungry, instead of meowing or rubbing or knocking things over, he would use a proxy.
In the mornings, that would mean sitting on Michele’s face, hoping she would wake me. During the day, he would antagonize his sister, Bianca — he knew that her hisses and yells would get my attention.
But as Bianca started developing arthritis, he would accommodate her. Instead of trying to pounce and play, he would just sit there and do the typical sibling “I’m-not-touching-you,” which would still get her to yell for me.
Michele was his human. The two had a bond that went deeper than most human friendships. Whenever she left the house, he would sit at the back door and yell for her, hoping she was just in the basement.
He sat on her wrists whenever she was on the computer, placidly riding the waves of her arms while she typed. She jokingly listed him as a co-author on one of her college papers, and her professor accepted it.
Odin was with her to comfort her whenever she fell ill, acting as a heating pad, a stuffed animal or sometimes even a tissue — whichever was needed.
Odin always greeted anyone who came into the house, sitting by the door when he heard someone coming. He was kind and gentle with his newborn nephew, even trying to crawl into his carrier to cuddle and, later, enduring awkward toddler kisses.
When Odin was young, he loved to go outdoors on a leash — although he hated the texture of grass and would shake his paw at it, his familiar sign of disgust.
He was a trash cat — not only was he found in the gutter, but he simply loved trash. His favorite toys were cardboard drink carriers. He would dig them out of the recycling.
At one point, he claimed a fast-food bag as his own; it sat on the floor for several months until we threw it out — at which point he threw a tantrum until we returned it to him.
Odin had only thrown up a handful of times in his almost 10 years, and I had only ever heard him hiss twice. When he started throwing up daily and when he hissed at me for brushing against him, we knew something was off.
He stopped eating and started chewing on rocks and fossils around the house. After a few days, we took him to the vet. He liked to eat leaves that had been tracked into the house, so we assumed it was a blockage.
But the vet found a mass, and after a quick biopsy gave a diagnosis of large cell lymphoma, with a prognosis of weeks to months.
Odin declined quickly, and a week later, he told us he was ready. He never hid during this and would pretend to eat to let us know he was OK.
Michele and I — and his brothers and sister — all miss him, but he still lives on in our dreams.
Cyrus O. Taylor,
Cleveland Heights
Do you share your life with an animal that is near and dear to you? Tell us something about your pet – all species are welcome – and send along a photo of the two of you. Be sure to tell us which Greater Cleveland community you live in. Send everything to Ann Norman at anorman@cleveland.com.
