Sad Day

Superior creature expresses doubt about human's ability to remove red-eye

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Her official name was Strawberry, a brain fart that I let loose when I brought her to the vet's office for her first checkup. The receptionist insisted that their filing system worked by pet's names and I hadn't figured one out yet. What the hell -- she was a black and white manx with a bright pink nose. Vanilla, chocolate, and …

Or so I explained afterwards.

She was never Strawberry to me, and certainly never responded to that name. I had about a thousand nicknames for her, each one of which I feel certain would nauseate you more than the next. She did not respond to any of those either, but a variety of other sounds would always make her come running. Probably her favorite noises were me crumpling up a piece of paper or tapping my fingernail on a bottle cap. Always up for a few rounds of fetch, she was.

It was she who taught me to play this game, as a matter of fact. One day, back when she was a kitten, she dropped some object at my feet and communicated through body language as plain as a puppy's that it was my duty to throw it. I couldn't believe it, but sure enough, I tossed it, she chased it down, brought it back, and went through the same excited motions. When she was very young, she'd play this game to the point of exhaustion if I'd let her -- I'd finally call a halt, pick her up and put her in a chair, and she'd be sound asleep in seconds. As she got older, she learned enough to stop on her own. Her technique was to take the toy and hide it under the couch. This made for some embarrassment on moving days.

I got her from a rescue shelter when she was about four or five weeks old, according to the vet's best guess. She may have imprinted on me, or maybe she was just naturally affectionate, but she never stopped jumping into my lap, following me from room to room, napping on the chair behind my butt when I sat at my desk, and spending the nights curled up on my chest, tucked into the crook of my arm, or sprawled against my back.

She was a big one for climbing. In one past apartment with floor-length drapes, this cost me the entire security deposit. No biggie -- cheap at twice the price, considering how much affection she's given in return. Next place, I rolled up a seven-foot wide carpet remnant and stood it against the wall. But only because the new place had mini-blinds.

She sneered at the coffee grinder and holds the feline world record for length of stay in a room also containing a running vacuum cleaner. She once survived a transcontinental flight in a cargo hold that culminated in the baggage handler knocking her, in her cat carrier, off the top of a pile of suitcases, all the way to the ground. One protesting mew and a few blinks were her only signs of complaint. She was also liked dripping faucets, desk drawers cracked open one paw width, everything to do with plastic bags, walking on the edge of the keyboard without stepping on the keys, and licking the tip of my nose, especially at six o'clock in the morning.

I'll spare you more recitations of fond memories, at least for the moment, and cut to the sad part. Pardon the excessive details. For some reason, I felt compelled to type them out.

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Strawberry died today.

For about the past month, she's finally been acting like the old girl (almost 15) that she was -- eating a little less every day, sleeping a lot more (even by cat standards), showing some occasional creakiness when jumping. I thought about bringing her to the vet, but I decided not to. When she was up and about, she seemed pretty much her old self. Though she wasn't eating as much, she was eating. She was also drinking water and using the litter box, pretty much as regularly as always. She did not seem to be in any discomfort, even when I picked her up, palpitated her belly, and manipulated her in other ways. I decided that she was nearing her natural end and did not want to torment her just to prolong her life for my sake.

Yesterday, she didn't come running into the kitchen for the morning feed. First time ever. I had to search the house, and finally found her hiding in a place I've never seen her go before. She was responsive and stood on her own when I carried her to where the food and water were, but she did not even deign to sniff. She immediately turned away, walked to an open cabinet nearby, and curled up in the back corner. I left her alone for a bit to see if she'd eat when less crowded by my nervous vibe. When I checked again, I found that she had left the cabinet and had to search the house for her again. She had managed to find a different hiding place, another one that I'd never seen her explore before.

I know that cats like their dignity, and I've heard that they tend to hide to die, but I couldn't bear to leave her alone like that. I spent most of the next twenty hours holding her in my lap. I thought about bringing her to the vet to be euthanized, but she wasn't showing any signs of suffering. She was asleep (or unconscious, perhaps) pretty much the entire time. She came to, struggled to her feet, and went for a short walk a few times, maybe looking for another hidey hole. She did not seem to mind, though, when I'd bring her back to my lap. She showed no interest in food or water, even when I held them in front of her nose.

At about two this afternoon, after laying quiet for a few hours, she stretched her head back and let out one of her trademark chirps. She seemed to stop breathing after that, although she let out a few hitches over the next ten or twenty minutes. Cheyne-Stokes respiration, I guess.

When that stopped, I took her off my lap and placed her body in a flat box that she loved to nap in, on the side table next to my desk.

I can't shake the idea that she really is just sleeping, and that if I walk out of the room and come back in just one more time, she'll be sitting up.

I have placed a crumpled-up piece of paper next to her nose and a bottle cap between her front paws.

I am now shaking my head, whether from irritation at my mawkishness or to clear the tears, I cannot say.