R.I.P Tubby the Cat

Photo: Tubby on my bed after a bath, April 2024

     By Bill Tarrant

Tubby, who my daughter Tavleen adopted before leaving for New York and entrusting the fat cat with her skeptical Dad, and who became a loving companion that turned me into an unlikely cat guy, died in my arms after a brief illness on Saturday. She was 15.

Tubby was already quite plump when she arrived at our Culver City home over five years ago with the unlikely name of Samba (though her lovely fur coat did have a bit of a jungly couture). Tavleen renamed her Tubby and the cat readily took to her moniker when it became linked to her food bowl, as in “Tubby, yum-yum?”.

When Tavleen left to pursue graduate studies at Columbia, Tubby and I fought like cats and dogs. She bit me (and no love bite either!) for being maladroit with her and I barked at her. We called the big skin cat girl in New York demanding she take back her stupid cat. But Tubby loves you, Tavleen protested, pointing out that the cat preferred to lie on my chest and purr contentedly.

Tubby learned several other expressions tied to her comfort – she loved her “brush-brush” and would come lumbering in to lie at my feet for a vigorous fur combing; “treat-treat” was the call to come out to her bedroom in the enclosed balcony at bedtime and nibble cat treats from my hand. She declined unsurprisingly to respond to “bath-bath”; instead submitting morosely to being carried into my walk-in shower, where we both scrubbed down (it’s the only way with cats).

I talked to her in the evening, sleeping at my feet, picking up her head and listening closely for any key expressions, giving me a slow blink when I said: “She’s a good girl”.

Yesterday, I came home from a golf outing to find her on Tavleen’s old bed, her kibble untouched in the food bowl. I knew I needed to take her to the clinic. By this morning, her breathing had become labored, and she could not walk, so we went to the animal hospital instead. Ex-rays showed her lungs were filling with liquid from advanced heart disease. She couldn’t live without being in an oxygen cage at the hospital. Euthanasia was the call.

I held her in my arms as the doctor injected the heavy sedative, tears streaming down my face, and couldn’t choke back the sobs when the second needle plunged in the medicine to stop her heart. I kissed her ear; she didn’t shake her head and lick her lips in pleasure this time. “She’s a good girl,” I croaked. She was a really good girl.