Nod to pops: The day my cat died, I understood my dad's love

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Growing up, I always listed my mom as my emergency contact, and in every emotional crisis, she was the one I turned to.

School stress, drama with friends, breakups -- that time my favorite teacher died while I was in high school -- I always went to my mom first.

Don't get me wrong, my dad comforted me the best he could, but my mom faced these issues directly. My dad, more emotionally avoidant in nature, didn't seem to know what to say.

Rick Myers had very dad-centric ways of showing love. A career PE teacher, he thrived on organizing games for the kids, busting out the rainbow parachute and chasing us across the lawn. He was also a skilled soccer player, playing in adult leagues and, for a few years, coaching my youth team.

Most seasons, I played under other coaches. But the best ones -- the ones I remember most fondly -- were when my dad was coaching on the sidelines. He made it fun, took it the right amount of serious and even led us to All-Stars.

Like many dads, mine was a peculiar gift giver. He once bought me a wooden Raiders pendant necklace though I had zero interest in football. While I never once wore it, I kept it for years.

Considering his less candid forms of love, it was all the more meaningful that he was the one to accompany me when I put down our cat, Siouxsie (yes, like the Banshees).

Summer 2021, the year before I moved from Palmdale to Chico, a vet diagnosed Siouxsie with diabetes. At age 22, with funds from my steady school custodian job, I shelled out absurd amounts of money on insulin to keep my beloved cat going.

Siouxsie was a large, black, furry and insane cat. I got him off the street when he -- yes he -- was well into his older cat years. At night, he would let out guttural screams for no apparent reason. He fought other cats, cuddled lovingly and preferred drinking water straight from faucets.

He was perfect.

But eventually, he went into diabetic ketoacidosis. I took him to the vet, where they said the bill for keeping him alive overnight would be $1,000. I obliged.

The next day, the vet called and told me Siouxsie needed to stay another night, meaning another $1,000. So, I told them that would not be possible and I would be by that evening to put him down. It was the worst phone call of my life.

For one reason or another, it was my dad who came with me. He held my hand as I sat with the vet, asking through sobs, "Is this the right thing to do?" The vet mercifully said yes.

Holding Siouxsie in a pink, heart-patterned blanket while sitting with my dad, a vet tech gave the lethal injection. To my surprise, and admiration for the former street cat, Siouxsie hissed and tried to pull away.

"Fighting until the last minute," my dad said, wiping away tears.

The vet tech told us beforehand that after Siouxsie died, we were to press an intercom button to let her know when to collect his body. Almost immediately after she left, I turned to my dad.

"Should we call her?"

"Oh, give it a minute," my dad said, crying and petting Siouxsie's lifeless body.

It's rare that I ever find myself crying with my dad, or see him crying at all for that matter. Sharing that godforsaken moment with him means more to me than he will ever know.

The love of a father is often more subtle, less obvious until a moment of true need appears. And when I really needed him, my dad showed up.