I took my cat, Precious, to the vet one final time yesterday. Her tumor had grown so large she was having a hard time breathing properly.
It’s surreal to come home to not see her there. I keep moving so I don’t have to think, vacuuming enough cat hair from the carpeting to sculpt another cat and trying to not to miss her but I do. I miss the little trill in her purr when she greets me in the morning. Her random muscle twitching when she sleeps. Her meowing politely at 4am to be let out of the room. Her squashing herself into 2-inches of space between my occupied lap and the armrest of the armchair; evidently, cats are categorized as liquids.
She was a former stray who had grown to be part of me.
Funny how I remember the littlest detail from one night, just because of a cat. I was in high school and still living at home, a two-bedroom ground-floor apartment. Our storage units were outside of our kitchen window and usually served as a fabulous platform from which residential squirrels taunted us. We had just finished dinner one night and cleared off the table. It had been snowing that night; a typical Minnesota February. My dad was moseying about the kitchen when he saw something outside of the window on top of the storage unit. It was a white cat, very small, and looking very cold. White cat in white snow. My dad called to my mom and I that there’s cat and both of us bounded to the window in a step and half, our three faces gawking at one. The cat looked at us shyly, checked her surroundings, then turned her gaze back to us. I slunk around our kitchen wall and opened our backdoor, which was adjacent to the storage units, then creaked open our arthritic patio door as non-threateningly as possible. The cat looked at me, back at my parents, then back at me and I made all of the enticing and ridiculous sounds I could think of to attract a stray cat. She looked at me a little longer, then tip-toed closer, lifting each foot high, touching the crusted snow as little as possible. She stopped right out of hand-reach, halted as if my outstretched hand and her nose were ends of magnets of the same charge. A pause, an eternity. Then she broke that force field and head-butted my hand. I scooped her up and flit into the apartment, letting the patio door close with an asthmatic whoosh. She didn’t struggle very much, but sat on the floor quietly, weather-weary and thin-boned, with widened eyes, one amber and one aquamarine, almost too giant for her thin face. My parents and I huddled around her like she’s a landed comet and made even more ridiculous cooing noises while she ate our roasted chicken left overs like a vacuum. Then she washed her face daintily and plopped on her side and stretched into a backwards feline accordion to have her belly rubbed.
And I was bewitched.
My life with her was full of emotional mayhem, a considerable proportion of which she caused. But she stayed with me, through three moves, my parents’ separation, a handful of break-ups, and a dozen early-life crises. When I would come home battered and bruised but too proud to show the world my wounds, she would climb into my lap and curl into her delicious cat swirl and purr and I would be a little girl again, just a cat on my lap and the world at bay.
I wanted to reason my grief away, that she was only a cat, that there will be more kitties who need a home, that she had a good life, that I had a good life with her. But none of these things help at all, even though they are true. I had expected her to be around longer, because there was so much more of life I wanted to share with her. I wanted her to be with me when I go off graduate school, so she could sit out on the screened-in patio and smell a Carolina autumn. I wanted her to hog all of my pillow space and purr the night away. I wanted so many more years. She was only nine.
I wish cats lived longer.