Kumba, 1996-2009
I buried my cat Kumba in the woods behind our house on Sunday. There are lots of cats in and around our house, but she alone has always been My Cat. She died Saturday afternoon of a lung tumor we'd known nothing about; Friday morning she seemed just sick enough to merit scheduling a Saturday checkup.
I am really surprised by how broken up I am over this. I thought I'd cried myself out at the vet, but burying her was even worse. She still looked so beautiful, exquisite; still dense, soft fur, precise markings, velvety ears. I'm still groaning, "My cat... my cat..."
She was a small, slender, graceful cat, a half-ocicat from the shelter in Sacramento. She was shy and skittish, she never lost her animal nature, her wildness; she always seemed a creature for jungles and savannas. But, when lured into a neck-scratching, she would drop into a hypnosis of pleasure and give the richest, warmest purr I've heard in my life. I once wrote of her
I cannot purr to God, little cat,
So lie in my lap, and I'll scratch your neck
And you can give praises for both of us.
I was startled when I added up the years and the vet called her "geriatric". She never seemed old. I'd had no idea our time with her was running out. I'm grateful that she lived healthily until she died, and for the thousands of days we had. But oh, God, it hurts. I want her back so much.
I am really surprised by how broken up I am over this. I thought I'd cried myself out at the vet, but burying her was even worse. She still looked so beautiful, exquisite; still dense, soft fur, precise markings, velvety ears. I'm still groaning, "My cat... my cat..."
She was a small, slender, graceful cat, a half-ocicat from the shelter in Sacramento. She was shy and skittish, she never lost her animal nature, her wildness; she always seemed a creature for jungles and savannas. But, when lured into a neck-scratching, she would drop into a hypnosis of pleasure and give the richest, warmest purr I've heard in my life. I once wrote of her
I cannot purr to God, little cat,
So lie in my lap, and I'll scratch your neck
And you can give praises for both of us.
I was startled when I added up the years and the vet called her "geriatric". She never seemed old. I'd had no idea our time with her was running out. I'm grateful that she lived healthily until she died, and for the thousands of days we had. But oh, God, it hurts. I want her back so much.