Toby, 2024

Let’s get the basics out of the way. Toby, of course, is a cat. Only nine years old. A brown tabby mix the size of a small dog. And weighs as much.

Part Maine Coon cat and some unknown breed, he is graceful, elegant and gentle – like the Cary Grant of the cat world.

Largest of all our current seven cats, he towers over the others – yet never tries to run things. He became the watcher of the last set of kittens my wife adopted during the pandemic, and still allows the smallest male cat to slink and sidle up and take him down. He is our clown cat, making us laugh. He ’boxes’ with our dominant male, driving him crazy by slowly reaching out with his long front leg and gently nudging Pyewacket on his head. Pyewacket swings… and misses. Like Ali teasing an opponent with a shorter arm span. Like I said, our clown.

Of all of our cats, Toby adopted me (more on this later) and we have grown closer over time. I work and he lays on my desk in front of the monitors; I sit on the couch and he is on my lap; I walk through the house and he runs behind, ‘mrrrting’ to me as we go.  My wife calls him ‘my stalker,’ and we are inseparable.

Until now.

 Toby has metastatic carcinoma – cancer. Or as the diagnosis reads: “Metastatic carcinoma bilateral in mandibular lymph nodes of unknown primary.”
 

 We found it early, due to all the time we spend together. You see, Toby constantly lays in my lap at night and wants pets, especially around the head and under the chin.  That’s how I found the swollen lymph node. What followed has been a whirlwind of vet visits, (didn’t like it), antibiotics (didn’t mind because it was mixed in with yummy food!), aspirated node samples shipped to UNH for lab analysis (hated it!), and referral to a veterinarian oncologist two hours away in southern Maine. 

That’s when our worst fears were realized.

Cancer.

 With no other signs of illness – x-rays clear and bloodwork panels absolutely normal – we had a couple of options. Do nothing and lose him in a matter of months or look at chemo and try to extend his time with us with the best quality of life we can give him. Neither is a great option, but we’ve chosen to try. The chemo may not work (or it may) – we just don’t know. But we have to try. But it’s not a cure. We will lose him. Younger than we ever thought we would. My wife and I have had thirteen cats since we’ve been together and the youngest to pass away was thirteen years old.  His life will likely be much shorter. Yet he’s the one I want to live the longest… Just to be here.