The last week of June in 1987, I came downstairs on a Saturday morning and found a small kitten on our front porch. I immediately started making phone calls to see if I could find it a home. We already had two cats. There was no way we were keeping this one. Not going to happen.

I took it to the vet to have it checked out and it was sick, so the vet decided to keep it over the week-end. I picked it up on Monday and brought it home, but then it was back to the vet cause the kitten was still sick. While he was overnighting at the vet’s office a second time, a woman I worked with said she wanted him. That was all fine, except now I couldn’t give him up. We had history, brief as it was, and our other two cats seemed to tolerate him just fine. I named him Pip after the waif in Dicken’s Great Expectations.

He was a mess. In the truest sense of a cat, he did things his way. He claimed his portion of the bed. He scratched the furniture. He’d jump on the counter or the table in the blink of an eye to steal a piece of meat. Salmon was never safe. You’d scratch his head and he’d nip your fingers, not hard, just a love bite. We called it getting “Snicked” or a “Snick Attack.”

He wasn’t much of a lap cat, but he liked to sit on my desk, on top of my computer or drape himself on the back of the couch where you were sitting. My friend Carol hated cats so he always made sure to rub against her when she came over.:p He had a raucous cry that could wake the dead. There was no ignoring Pipenstein when he was hungry or displeased. He wouldn’t always come when I called him, but he’d come if I snapped my fingers.

His absolute worst habit was he considered an open box or bag his for the peeing. Trust me, I lost two suitcases this way. He had me so well-trained, I’d be annoyed with him, but thought I should’ve known better than to leave it where he could avail himself. There was the call last year from The Girl at school. “Mom, can you come up here? Pip peed in my book bag and I didn’t know til I was taking out my math homework.” “Okay, but you shouldn’t have left it open on the floor.” “It’s gross, Mom.” “Yeah, well he’s ornery and he’s old. Don’t leave it on the floor.”

Fairly ironic that with his peeing issues over the years (and no, nothing was wrong with him way back when, we checked — sheer orneriness), that he was diagnosed with kidney failure in late March. Girl and I gave him subcutaneous fluids every few days and he Pipped right along, enjoying sunning himself, jumping on the table, eating salmon which I happily cooked for him and cans of wet food.

Nineteen years is a long time. I was lucky. He was lucky. Yersterday morning I gave him the juice from a can of tuna (one of his all-time favorites) and called the vet. Jumping on the kitchen table was no longer a remote possiblity. He could barely stand. It was time. The vet came to our house and I sat on the sofa and held him in my lap and Girl and I rubbed his head until it was over. And now, even with three dogs and a cat still here, the house feels empty.

Pip. Pipster. Pippenstein. Snick. Sneaky-pie. Peeky-boo. Mr. Pip.