roadrunnertwice: Protagonist of Buttercup Festival sitting at a campfire. (BF - Vast and solemn spaces)
Our cat Frankie died this week.

There's a whole lot of strays in the neighborhood, and I kind of stalk and post pictures of them constantly, so local friends who follow my Instagram often ask how "your cats" are doing. I always reflexively say "They're not our cats!"

Except for Frankie. Frankie WAS our cat, the one who wholeheartedly loved us back and who forcibly moved in with us. (We're renters and aren't really supposed to have a cat, but she was impossible to keep out. She'd come in through the skylights, for god's sake. She just decided that we were her humans now, and that was the end of the discussion.)

I miss her so fucking much already. Every 20 minutes or so I'll do something that would have gotten a reaction from her, and I'll look up and she doesn't appear. Mornings have gotten particularly hard, because she'd reliably come wake us (well, me) to demand food (even if she wasn't hungry, the rule was that Humans Must Get Up in the Morning), then go back to sleep on Ruth for a while before it was time to get up for real.

We only knew her for a little less than three years. We treasured her, and I think we were able to give her a pretty good life. I think I have no regrets. I think.

I miss her.

Annie

Jan. 27th, 2008 03:23 pm
roadrunnertwice: Vesta Tilley, Victorian drag king (Vast and solemn spaces)
I hope, in the interest of cosmic balance, that someone around here had a really good Saturday night. Myself, I stayed up 'til dawn watching my cat die.

Annie was pushing 17, and had been in her querulous old age for a while, but the transition from "old and tired" to "dying" was startlingly fast. Thursday, when I was cleaning my room, she just acted more tired than she'd recently been, and had a bit more trouble moving around. Friday, maybe a little more so. Saturday morning, she ate her thyroid pill with salmon about as cheerfully as she usually would. (The last thing she'd eat or drink.) Midmorning, she could no longer walk and had trouble standing, and was refusing water. In the afternoon, we were still talking about taking her to the vet on Sunday. By evening, all that remained was to lay her on a towel by the pellet stove, lavish attention on her, and wait.

On Wednesday, she seemed perfectly fine. So all told, I suppose it was about as merciful as death by old age and organ failure gets.

I don't know what it is about those few minutes right before dawn that makes them such a popular time to breathe one's last, but Annie did it by the book. After growing steadily weaker all night as Mom and I held vigil and stroked her fur, she opened her eyes, twitched legs she hadn't moved for hours, gasped, and died. The sky in the east had brightened into a flat, exhausted indigo, and that was the end of our cat.




Annie was a coyote-colored cat with a ringed tail and fine tufted ears, and in her youth, she had a blocky sort of physique that made her look partially unfinished. (Her sister, who died when we were in high school, looked much the same, though a little bit rounder.) In her old age, she grew rather thin and bony, giving her a long-limbed poise that was oddly lupine.

She was by turns clingy and standoffish, and maintained a peevish attitude toward Stefan, the younger and more gregarious boy cat she shared our house with. (Stefan quietly joined in last night's vigil. He came and went, but was standing right there at the last. Then he joined me for the five hours of sleep I got this morning, burrowing in hard against my back.) She adopted Mom and myself as her favorites, for reasons she never deigned to explain, and spent the moiety of her last several months in my room.

She may have been the most awkward cat I've yet known, and she never quite got the knack of sitting on one's lap without making all parties uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she had a powerfully un-catlike flair for showing she was glad to have you in the room.

She had a deep and abiding love of all People Food, especially cheeses and smoked meats. There was some problem with her vocal cords, and instead of meowing, she used this two-parted squeak that is most closely transcribed as "Ree-eew."

She was a pain in the ass and a delight. When she would carefully eat every piece of cheese on her plate except the one with the pill in it, I would huff an irritated sigh, rub her ears and the side of her face, and proclaim her the "Worst Cat Ever." She wasn't, though. She was a Good Kitty, and damned if I won't miss her.

annie-and-stefan.jpg

Annie and Stefan, asleep on our old couch. Photo taken four years ago.

Profile

roadrunnertwice: Vesta Tilley, Victorian drag king (Default)
Nick Eff

August 2017

S M T W T F S
  1234 5
6789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
2728293031  

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags

Most Popular Tags

Static and Noise

If you pass the rabid child, say "hammer down" for me.

The Fell Types are digitally reproduced by Igino Marini.

Style Credit