Mourning and remembrance
Twelve and a half years ago, I spent an hour in the pet store, talking to and playing with a litter of black kittens. I chose the smallest, the runt of the litter. I was afraid they'd card me, afraid they'd say no, because I wasn't 18 yet, but they didn't. I'd fought with Mom six months ago over getting my first cat, Shadow, and she'd finally agreed to let me have some company for her. And I brought home this little tiny black kitten. We named her Misty then, but it changed quickly to Demona. Demon, for short. I'd thought maybe if I spent the time choosing her, I might have a real familiar. These are the things you think when you're seventeen and a half.
She was the only cat I ever knew to fluff her tail up when she was happy and purring, being petted. If you played with her tail, tip or base, it was a sure invitation to have her grab your hand with her teeth. Gently, but firmly. She didn't break the skin, but she made sure you knew she wasn't happy. If you petted her too long, she did the same...once she was done, it was over unless she told you where to pet her.
She would bump her head against my thigh while I was sitting in my computer chair, then look up at me and beg with her eyes to come and sit on my lap. The only one that braved the children to sit with me during the day when they were up, because she knew that if she swatted them they'd leave her alone. And because if she was on my lap, I'd be sure to make them pet her gently.
She was bipolar, sometimes the sweetest kitty you could ask for, sometimes a raging psycho crankycat. But she was a wonderful cat, and I loved her. She was careless with her tail, switching it back and forth and knocking things over with it. It didn't matter to her, because she was always there when she wanted to be hugged or petted. She'd lost weight in the past months, but was gaining it back on a diet of soft food, slowly. A broken tooth that needed removed...when we had the money. But she was happy, and while thin, acted healthy.
She fell off my desk with a thump and thrashed on the floor, rolling over and over and flailing her limbs around. When she stopped, she was gasping, her heart pounding, and she couldn't stand, much less walk. Then it started again...and again...and again. I called the vet, and they said "Take her to the emergency clinic." I knew that would be the answer. And I knew as I held her in my arms between seizures that she couldn't stand. She couldn't walk. And she couldn't live that way. I scrambled, threw on my clothes and shoes. I hadn't showered, and my hair was in tangles, but I tucked her into the carrier.
Charles kissed her goodbye. He'd been trying so hard to comfort her, to make her feel better, petting her and petting her between seizures, and he kissed her goodbye as we left. She disliked the children. Tolerated, at best, with bats of her paws and annoyed hisses. She permitted them to pet her, but only if I was there to supervise. Otherwise, she told them firmly to go away. Charles knew this, and he still kissed her goodbye as we ran out the door to the vet.
She looked at me in the car, between three more seizures, and I saw resignation and goodbyes in her eyes. She knew. She wasn't going to recover, and she wasn't going to come back, and she wanted the pain and fear to end. My voice calmed her, but it wasn't enough.
The vet confirmed what I feared. She was too old, too thin, her health was too poor. It might have been a stroke, a blood clot, kidney failure, liver failure...any of several different things. Finding out exactly would cost more than we had. Een if they knew, the vet assured me, there was less than 50% chance of her regaining functional mobility, and that would be weeks, months at best, with more expensive treatments. She lost control of her bowels while she lay in my lap, wrapped in a blanket because her temperature was dropping fast. Two more signs of danger, the vet told me, signs she had little chance of recovery. She looked up at me, and I held her in my arms, stroking her head and scratching her ears, and I said that it would be cruel to force her to live like this, especially with the children.
And I held her in my arms, and I told her that I couldn't heal her, but that I would make the pain go away and that I loved her. And she fell into sleep, to die, to sleep no more. And I kissed her head and wept, and wept, and still I weep...For tonight I wait for a small black kitty to nudge my leg and leap into my lap, to walk across my desk switching her tail back and forth. And it will not happen tonight...nor any night to come, from my Demonchild, my psychokitty. I see a pawprint, a bit of hair, a tooth, a claw, a whisker. I feel her presence...but she is no more now than spirit.
And I mourn. And I fear for my Shadowkitten, who is six months older...and who is my first cat, and my favorite of all, the one who licks my face at night and speaks in the voice of a calico Siamese.
Oh my Demonchild, my black kitty, my psychokitten...Oh, I miss you. Your body is naught but flesh, but my heart aches. Twelve years...and I loved you all of those years. Bad habits and good...I loved you, and I miss you, and I mourn you. I knew I would grieve...but I hadn't guessed I'd grieve this much for you.