On St. Patricks Day our kitty died. It's terribly quiet in the house. Not that she was so loud, especially as she grew older and fonder of napping in sunbeams or on soft chairs. But now that she is gone, I miss her soft vocalizations asking me to hurry up and open the Fancy Feast can, and just forget making coffee, or purring loudly on my lap. Then there was the sound of her claws on the kitchen floor, and the solid thump when she jumped down off the bed after I clicked off the light. I keep thinking I hear her, but of course I'm mistaken.
When a pet dies, a little part of your heart dies too - even though you know in your head that animals have comparatively short life spans. Heck, we learn that when we're children through a whole parade of fish, birds, cats, dogs, all lost to accidents, disease, or old age. If our parents didn't allow pets, there were books and movies to drive the lesson home - Old Yeller and The Yearling come to mind.
Bucky, aka Cat Girl, Little Buckeroo, was a rescue. After our previous cat, Sophie, died, we grieved a few weeks, traveled a little, and then went interviewing kitties at the Humane Society. This particular feline, then probably an adolescent, somewhat small in stature, stood out from the pack by trotting over and hopping up and my lap and making herself at home. Clearly she was the one, a first rate snuggler. We had eleven years together.
Eleven years aren't so many, really. Lots of cats live longer. She, unfortunately, developed a benign tumor on her face several years ago. The vet prescribed steroids, which helped some, but caused her to develop diabetes. I wish we had been told this was a possible side effect. We made an executive decision not to treat the disease. Treating her would have involved much drawing of blood, administering of medicine, and in the end, the same result. So we opted for lots of cuddles and staying home.
She was so weak at the end I started searching for a vet who would come to our house to put her to sleep, but she took charge of the situation herself, and passed away on her own at home.
I surely miss her.
1 comment:
I am so sorry, Sherry, and can appreciate how sad you must be. My kitty is over 17 years old and he is in really good health but I often wonder how long he can last. We inherited him from our son when he was very young. He must have been abused by the person who owned him before our son because he can be really nasty. Tonight he lashed out at our grand-dog who was doing nothing at the time. He hisses a lot too....even at himself, I think!
You gave your kitty a really good life and made the right decision......
I find myself wondering what I will do if Isaac dies. With this cancer, I am not sure I would want to make another long-term commitment. I suppose a middle aged cat would be okay......
Hugs,
JoAnn
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