My Pumpkin

Content warning: grief, family loss, emotional trauma

I have met few individuals that spark that unmistakable, blood-rushing pang in my chest. That individual who brings out a side of you that you didn’t know was there. That feeling where you think

‘How is so-and-so right now?’ And ‘I hope you get hit with a brick!’

There was that kid in primary school who would step on the backs of my shoes during lineup, the sixth form tutor who marked me down for using a pencil she didn’t like, and the man at the local chicken and chip shop that once sneezed on the food I waited 45 minutes for. But no one, and I mean nobody, has ever evoked such blood-curdling sourness, such venom-hurdling irritation, as the menace my girlfriend fell for.

And his name was Pumpkin.

Now, listen. I am a logical guy, and I don’t make a habit of hating on the things my girlfriend apparently loves. But imagine you are watching a movie on your sofa; you are all snuggled up with the woman you love at your side, the room is faintly lit, there are candles on the table and half eaten Chinese takeaway: the mood is perfect. And then this lanky, fuzzy-tailed, menace waltzes in, and all her attention is on him. She picks him up and starts hugging him, and THEN!!

SHE STARTED CUDDLING THE THING. You would assume that across the male species, it is universally known you do not interrupt a movie night cuddling session. But nope. He nuzzled into her chest whilst staring daggers into my eyes. Essentially challenging me.

IN MY OWN HOUSE. This small battle for dominance seemed completely unnoticed by Sarah (my girlfriend) because she just giggled at this blatant attack on my masculinity and cooed at how

“comfortable he had got”

around her. I can’t fault her for being excited about this, though.

It had been 3 weeks since she had seen him in the alleyway outside her house. He lay under a small street gutter that was partially open and where, if not for his yelps, she would not have seen him. Nuzzled under the shade, with the only thing visible being his light amber eyes with the black slits in the centre. She told me that he had scratched her hand when she first tried to pick him up. Now I would have counted this as exhibit A of his future actions against humanity, but she didn’t seem to notice. When she came to me and asked me for help, I had to reach my hand into filthy UK gutters to get the small thing out. We took it to the vet and were told that we had found an exotic shorthair cat. He had no home, no tags of any kind, was only slightly underweight at 6.5 pounds and he could be given to a local pet shelter near St Mary’s Church. At this response he did a little roll, which left his paws in the air.

I had agreed with the doctor about this being logical, but when I looked at Sarah, you would have thought that she had just been told dreams don’t come true. She slowly wiped away a tear and whimpered as she said

“Is it possible for me to look after him? Maybe until his family comes asking if anyone has seen their cat?”

And that was how I got a cat. See, she wasn’t allowed to have pets in her flat, but guess who was? So, I now had a pet I didn’t want and who I was certain was trying to steal my girlfriend. He would run to her any time she was over and nuzzle her hands; if I tried to go anywhere without him, he would cause a fit. She would comfort him and I would be forced to take care of him.

Once, I was getting ready for a dinner date and wore a nice-looking suit. I must admit, I looked classy, like a young James Bond. The cat, for all his antics, was well-behaved. Until he saw my girlfriend. I tried to hug her but was intercepted by this thief of joy. And the show this boy put on could truly rival Shakespeare. Any telenovela. In fact, he could win an Oscar for his performance.

I’m serious.

Screaming, crying, coughing as though his lost love had just died. He was hissing and weeping and pouting. She tried to take him outside and suggested we just take him with us, but this seemed to make things worse. It took 30 minutes of investigation to realise he hated my suit. The suit he didn’t care about and had ignored when I walked past earlier. So, guess who had to attend a fancy restaurant in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.

Yeah.

This small act of defiance seemed to have set a precedent for the rest of our relationship because everything he wanted, he got. I tried to say no, but if his eyes didn’t move me, Sarah’s did. She has these big brown eyes that make you all warm and apparently removed any semblance of a backbone I had.

I wasn’t completely useless though; I threw myself into researching this cat’s name, family, his possible links to an ancient primordial curse that loved to inconvenience the lives of innocent men. But no luck. I would have had better luck finding the lost city of Atlantis.

What I did find were hairballs everywhere in my house, my things pushed off counters and my girlfriend stolen and being given the nickname ‘Pumpkin’s keeper’ (courtesy of Sarah).

Why Pumpkin, you ask?

“Because he looks like a pumpkin,” Sarah remarked one day as I was making us dinner. “Plus, he smells like pumpkins too.”

This was the only thing I agreed on when it came to the beast because, yes, he smelt like pumpkins and something wet that I couldn’t figure out yet. Maybe toilet water. I wouldn’t put that past him.

That was the routine for our lives for the next few months. And my disdain for him only grew until indifference festered.

I had just arrived home from work to find that Pumpkin, had left claw marks on everything and was now eating the food I had left over in my kitchen saucepan. And of course, he scratched me when I tried to get him because clipping his nails was not an option. Not unless you wanted to look like you got in a fight with a chainsaw.

The call had come in as I was moving him from my food, which was met with yelps of protest.

“Hello, is this James Morten?”

“Speaking?”

“Hello, Mr Morten. I am Angela from Templon London Hospital, and I am calling regarding your mother.”

“What happened? Is she OK?”

Silence. Then-

“I am sorry to inform you of this, Mr Morten, but she passed away today at 6:17 in the morning. As you know, she came in for a routine hip surgery, but there was some fluid accumulation, and this was unable to be treated in time...”

I am pretty sure she had said something else, but I just felt numb. Like there was water in my ears and a super ball was expanding in my throat. Everything didn’t spin like in the movies, and my life didn’t flash before my eyes. Instead, I fell to my knees, clutching the cold marble counter for support. Everything looked so real, so solid, but it was as if her not being here was not real. I half expected, and even prayed, that she would walk through the door or that the hospital would call back and explain that they had called the wrong person.

Instead, I was given weeks of planning, some medical documents that I barely read through before signing, and calls from family members who prodded at a too-open wound and said stupid things like

“It’s part of God’s plan,” and “She’s in a better place now.”

But I knew my mum, and if she couldn’t watch her weekly Coronation Street, she likely wouldn’t have been happy.

I had to prepare to send off a person I couldn't imagine being here without. A woman I had not seen her in so long and the last thing I had said to her was if she could get me some gum from the corner shop.

Her funeral was quick. She had loved the church, so she was buried in a graveyard near the site. I had not given a speech. I don’t think I spoke the whole day.

Sarah had been by my side the whole time. Bringing me food when I couldn’t eat and making sure, I was a functioning human being. I took some time off work and spent days where I just lay on the floor in my room, not bothered to get into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

It was on one of these days when Pumpkin came in with the same entitlement he had always had and lay on my chest. He didn’t glance at me and didn’t pry or give false words of encouragement. No, he just lay there with me as we listened to my heartbeat, and I held him close to stop the sobs from wrecking my body. I had thought this was a one-time thing, but he did this every day for the next 6 weeks. Every day he would lie with me, from when I thought I was the worst son in the world to when I reminisced about the memories of my mum all the way to when those memories would make me cry to the point no sound came out of me.

He did this all while smelling like pumpkin and tap water.

The following days after my grief had subsided to normal levels, it was awkward. It seemed as grief dissipated, inhibition increased because I started to realise, I had cried my eyes out to this amber-eyed fluff-ball, who now was clinging to me at every turn. I guess he didn’t feel embarrassed, but I sort of did. I remember one moment in particular, where I had just had a very difficult day, as if a dark shadow had crawled over me, and when I looked down, I saw him rolled on his back with his paws and tail tucked in as he tried to give me a little wink.

I must admit; I was starting to understand why Sarah loved that so much. He was still waltzing around the house as if he owned the place, but I guess he had learnt to be a benevolent leader because he was less haughty and instead was calmer and more patient.

I learnt a few things about him as well. For instance, he loved gospel, classical and 1980s R&B. He insisted on watching you eat, was impossible to get out of the bath, but once he was put in, you couldn’t get him out, and loved to watch Formula 1 and cat cooking videos. It was kind of OK. He was much more tolerable when he wasn’t destroying everything.

Sarah noted this change in our relationship one day and remarked,

“I guess you have found a new favourite,” as she cooed to Pumpkin, at which point he leapt from her hands and curled into my lap. I couldn't help but revel at the warmth that spread through my chest as he purred on my lap and nuzzled my right hand. I guess it wouldn’t be so bad to keep this cat. I guess it was fine if he had a new favourite.

I wish that was all it was.

I prayed for days hoping it was only that.

It was a Tuesday. 11:55 am. I was going into work for my shift when I noticed Pumpkin was not following me. Surveying the room, I found him lying on his side by the window, breathing heavily and hot to the touch.

The doctor said it was lymphoma, and based on the test, this likely wasn’t the first time he had been treated for this. He was so thin on that table. Though he ate like a horse and would run me out of food constantly, I had never noticed how light he was. He was breathing heavily, and his glazed eyes were struggling to stay open as he looked at my hand and gave it a small prickly tap from his tongue. They also found something inflamed pushing near his heart, which meant he had to be sent off to surgery.

He had to be OK. He had not terrorized my life, been there for me when I needed him, taught me to care for him and become an irreplaceable part of my life just to leave.

He had to be OK.

Following the surgery, he was put on many medications and frequently had checkups that increased in proximity. It was two weeks until his final check-up, at which point the doctor said he would need another surgery. Something felt different about this one, though; the vet refused to meet my eyes, and Pumpkin was lying there incredibly still, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

We didn’t see the vet until hours later, and when we did, we were told that Pumpkin had only 3 days to live. 3 days where I stayed by his side and listened to his very slow heartbeat.

I won’t call him the world’s best pet or the best animal I have ever met; instead I will call him a counter top menace, the cuddles hog with a yell that could shatter glass, a great friend when in need, a cat with an appetite that could rival ‘The Tiger Who Came for Tea’ and the most unusual friend I have ever made. As I laid him on my chest and he purred in a heart-wrenchingly low tone, I pressed my weeping face into his head that smelt like pumpkin and rain, listening to the last flutter of a heartbeat as it stopped, and I kissed the top of his head for the first and last time.