I spent all day with my cat by my side. She's seventeen years old and she's very sick. I have tears in my eyes as I write this because I know our time together is limited. What follows are the things that I have been thinking about these past few weeks.
Whitney has been my very best friend since I was an eight-year old girl that desperately wanted something to love and to call her own. I begged my mom, "Please, please, please." She was concerned about bringing a pet into our home that I was clearly allergic to. The first time I touched a cat I was three years old and I remember my neck itching and my eyes puffing over. I was swollen and sneezy and itchy and miserable. But I was one convincing eight year old that fell in love with a spunky little cat named Minnie. I held the black kitten in my hand and pulled her close to my nose and took a giant sniff and I proclaimed, "See, Mom, I'm not allergic." And that night we took her home.
I wanted to cuddle and pet her so badly that night. She wanted to tour the new abode. I remember that she just kept circling the rooms and sniffing things and my mom said, "Just let her do what she needs to do."
The next morning I had to go to school. It was the longest day of my life. I thought about her every second of the day. I was so scared that she would get in to something and that she might get hurt. But when I came home, I discovered, like Mom had promised, that everything was fine.
The debate about what to name this black sweetie went on for two weeks. Minnie just wouldn't do. My aunt Lisa helped. We liked Whitney, yes, named after Whitney Houston, but we also liked Aretha. Mom wouldn't even consider a name that wasn't human-sounding. No Whiskers.
Whitney soon picked me to be her person. I liked being her person because she was my cat.
I taught her a trick, or maybe she taught me a trick. When I ran out of the room and hid behind a wall she would follow after me and I thought that was so sweet. I'd run around from the hall to the family room and say, "Presenting, WHITNEY!" and she'd come running around the corner on cue.
At Christmas she'd climb up the trunk of our Christmas tree and any time I tried to do my homework she'd climb up to the table, sit on my paper and tap my pencil with her paw making it impossible to write. She's a sucker for pencils, and string, and in her younger years, laser pointers. She used to be a mighty bird hunter. She'd sit in the big open window and chatter her teeth. And on my birthday she does the birthday dance and sings to me. (Mom assists with that annual performance.)
Whitney loves my hairdryer and my hairbrush. As soon as I turn it on, she gallops into my room and wants to rub her cheeks on my hairbrush. I once bought her her own brush, a people brush just like mine, but she didn't like it. She likes my brush.
After our beloved first tabby passed away when Whitney was 10, we introduced a new kitten into the house. His name was Jake and he was a tiny puff of grey cuteness. Whitney hissed at him a few times when we first brought him home, but they would soon become friends. He really looked up to her and treated her like his sister, and I think they've made great companions since we can't be home all the time.
In her prime, Whitney weighed 17 pounds. While Jake has grown to be just as big as Whitney, Whitney has lost more than half of that weight and gets cold more easily. It's been a long winter. She sleeps on her heating pad and when she stays in my room at night, she rustles her way under the covers. She makes a little nest in between my curled up body and the body pillow and it makes it hard to sleep because I'm half awake the entire night making sure I don't smother her. Because her appetite is low, she hasn't eaten much. Little tufts of hair are falling out in clumps, and I can feel her spine when I pet her. She looks so tiny next Jake. And she is.
I don't know how to cope with the idea of losing a friend that has meant so much to me for the last 17 years. There is little comfort to find in the death of any one, or any cat that I've loved. I hate change, and I hate death. I HATE death. I do. I hate it. And I wonder if I'll ever be able to face it head strong with confidence in believing that the end of a life is okay if it's been well lived. I just can't be sure. What I am sure of is that I loved Whitney and my mom loves Whitney as much as we possibly can and that Whitney knows we love her. And for that reason alone, Whitney has had a good life.
Here's to coping with a few painful weeks to follow and to pain that is so strong simply because I loved so much.
