You will always be a part of me. The silky smooth feel
of your long dark fur, your sweet soft meow with just a hint of a Southern
drawl, and the frisky spring in your step in your younger days are permanently etched
in my brain. Images of you sprinting lithely up the front steps of our log
house in the country, curled up next to Goldie under the firewood pile on
chilly evenings, and dashing into the house with a live bird in your mouth (and
me chasing wildly after you) are memories that I’ll carry with me as long as I
live. Your dear little spirit will always live in my heart. Your gentle
sweetness evokes memories from the deep parts of my mind, as though you’re a
reincarnation of my mother. You’re one of the sweetest animals who ever lived. The lightness in your gait and fluffy coat when you were young and healthy gave you the appearance of a graceful little ballerina with whiskers.
You were my teacher and comforter when I was
younger. During times of stress when I was a thirty something career woman, I’d
sometimes come home fussy and uptight after a busy, frustrating day at work.
I’d pick you up and cradle you baby style in my arms, and your deep, strong
purr would vibrate against my chest, calming me. Your warm body would relax me.
I would gaze into your wise eyes that seemed to say, let it go, Mommy, it’s
alright. We’re together and everything’s okay. You always made me feel better,
and I’d find the strength to go back to my workplace and face the stress again
the next day. During my pagan years, I used to call you my witch cat. You
seemed to come from some other deeply spiritual space and time. You are an
ancient soul. You’ve brought joy, peace, companionship, and love to my life for
almost two decades.
Lately you’ve lost weight and slept more, and
secluded yourself behind a bookcase. Your appetite has waned, even for the
Fancy Feast Savory Salmon that you’ve loved so much over the years. You’ve stopped
carrying your favorite stuffed toy around the house. You’re barely five pounds.
The cancer is taking you away, inch by inch. It will take your little body, but
it can never take away your eternal spirit.
You were meant to be my cat. After the first time I
saw you as a stray at a storage facility in Newberry, I knew I had to go back and get you and bring
you home. Patti Gordon, your vet at the All Cats Clinic, says half jokingly
that what cats want is good food, a safe place to live, and to be left alone.
But you and I both know that we’ve shared a very deep friendship. Even though
I’ve complained at times about the coughed up hairballs, missed litter box
accidents as you’ve grown old, and the little tumbleweeds of cat hair that blow
across the living room floor when the ceiling fans are turned on, I have loved
you dearly. I would gladly clean it up all over again.
As you’ve grown increasingly old and I’ve matured, we’ve
traded roles. I’ve become your comforter. Medications, prescription diets, and
trips to the vet have become routine. I brush your coat daily since you’re no
longer able to groom. I’m retired from my full time job now, and I’m grateful to
have more time to cuddle you, scratch you in the places you love, and tell you
that I love you. I want to remember every detail of your being. I stroke your
lucky yellow left hind foot and the bright white star on your throat. I hold you in
my arms baby style, look into your green eyes and tell you that we’re together
and everything will be okay. I will be with you until the very end. Although
your illness is stressful, I find ways to cope. I burn incense, play New Age
music, drink Starbucks, and call a friend.
I had been so hopeful when you rallied after the
course of antibiotics and pain meds. Maybe it’s just an infection, I thought. My
heart sank at the follow-up visit when the vet said the tumor is no
longer infected but it is still cancer. She talked at great length about risky
surgeries with little possibility of a successful outcome, batteries of tests
with no clear purpose, and radiation therapy. I believe that you would not want
me to make you suffer through all that. On the other hand, I guilt trip myself
by wondering if there are things I could have done to prevent your cancer. Then
I remind myself that you’ve had a fine, long life and I’ve taken very good care
of you.
I want to write this chapter while you’re here with
me, instead of waiting to construct a melancholy eulogy after you’re gone. I’ve
written too many sad stories and obituaries for pets and other family members
in the past few years. I want my story to be more than simply a tale of
depression. I want to write about the good times, the meaning of life, and all
the beauty in my world. You’re such a dainty little princess, yet courageous
and strong. I’m so glad that being your Mommy has been a part of my life. You’re
curled up beside me in our red leather recliner even as I write this,
your warm silky body tucked in next to me. You make your contented lilting
chirping sound, so familiar, when I gently rub your head. You bump your head
against my hand for more. We are together for now. I want to enjoy every moment
I have with you. The present moment is all we have together, my beloved, sweet-natured
Bridget Widget. You were named Bridget after a pagan goddess, and you are truly a
Goddess. You have made my life richer for many years, and I am so glad you’ve
been a member of my family. I want to take a hundred photographs of you. I want to always remember the feeling of your fine soft silky coat on my fingertips when I touch you. I want to give
you a million kisses and smell the clean scent of your fur. I celebrate you, my
Princess!
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