This is a eulogy, I guess, but also therapy for a grieving pet owner, so please bear with me.
We first encountered our companion at an animal shelter in Virginia. She was a gray and tan kitten with white socks and bib, and she was staring solemnly at us from her cage, while her brother frolicked madly around her. My then-fiancé was drawn to the more active tom, but I was struck by the little female’s steady gaze. After a bit of discussion, we agreed to adopt her, signed some papers, and headed for home. Little did we know that she would become an indispensable part of our lives for the next 18 years, inextricably bound up in life’s events, and hopelessly entwined in our hearts. We named her Viralata (Vira, for short), a Portuguese slang word that loosely means “street person” or even “stray cat”, and literally translates as “can turner”.
She was lonely at first, as most kittens are when separated from their litters. She mewed piteously at night at first, until my future wife had the inspiration to place her on my pillow, where she quickly curled up in my hair, purring and content. It was an odd sensation, to say the least. For the next week, she either slept there, or curled up in my chest hair. At night, I would wake up and carefully roll to the other side, and she would quickly march up over my head, down the other side, and resume her place in the world.
Life moved quickly from that point on, as we were in the Foreign Service. Our orders came for assignment to Portugal, and off the three of us went on the first of many journeys together. Subsequent to that, we moved to Mali, where Vira had great fun catching geckos (or at least their tails), and onward to Uganda. She took it all in stride, becoming a stalwart traveler and the key element to making any house we lived in a home. After Africa, we decided to leave the government, and we moved to Alaska, where for the first time Vira was alone during the day. Prior to that, there had been housekeepers to keep her company. When we came home from work, we could hear her vocalizing before we even opened the door. There she’d be at the top of the steps, arching her back and rubbing herself against the walls, delirious with joy at seeing us again. Oddly enough, if there was a phone message waiting, she would start “talking” as soon as we got to the top of the stairs. Whenever she did this, there was invariably a message on the machine.
We retired bought our first RV in Alaska and began making trips every summer. Surprisingly, Vira was always interested in the places we stopped, perching on the table or on the bed and gazing at the goings-on outdoors, sniffing at the scent of pine and animal smells. When we retired and took a five month RV trip across country, she was as content living that way as she was in much larger quarters, just happy to be with her litter-mates. She was about 16 years old by then and had developed a thyroid condition, but otherwise was the healthiest pet I’ve ever had.
We found a house in Portland a couple of years ago, and once again settled into our routines. Vira continued to be the heart of our home and a joy in our lives. She gradually lost her hearing, but otherwise stayed healthy and active, playing her favorite game of “I’ll jump up on the bed and you throw the sheet over my head and make menacing gestures. I’ll pretend to be really pissed off and lunge at your hand and meow in mock outrage until we’re both tired of playing.”
A few months ago, we noticed that Vira wasn’t eating as much. She gradually started losing weight, but we thought perhaps it was a function of age. Her blood work from the vet didn’t indicate any problems other than the usual thyroid and blood pressure issues that were medicated. Then she stopped showing any interest in food altogether and began losing weight in earnest. Never a large cat, she dropped from about nine pounds to under seven, which concerned us. The vet hydrated her and put her on anti-nausea meds to keep her from vomiting. Still, she continued to be off her food and continued to lose weight, eventually going down to about four and a half pounds. At this point, we were frantic. We knew she must be getting ready to leave us, but we couldn’t understand what was wrong.
It was at this point that the vet discovered a mass in her throat. Cancer, she said; aggressive. Maybe another month, she said. I can give you pain meds to help, but she won’t recover, she said. Devastated, we returned home. She remained bright-eyed and active, able to jump up on the bed even with her greatly reduced muscle mass, willing to initiate some play and to contentedly perch in our laps in the evening. She loved to sit on the deck in the sun and soak up the warmth. Her appetite inexplicably returned, a cruelly false flicker of hope for us, but it stabilized her weight, however temporarily. Always meticulous in her grooming, her fur became matted with the wet food, and we had to help her stay clean, as she just couldn’t keep up with it. Still and all, she seemed stable.
Then on Saturday (July 16) she took a sudden nosedive. The energy just seemed to suddenly drain out of her. She would walk a few paces, then lie down and rest, then continue her journey a bit more. During the night, she didn’t come to our bed, and in the morning we found her sleeping next to her water dish, unable to drink. One look at her eyes told us it was time to part with our sweet friend; to repay her steadfast friendship and devotion with one last act of kindness. The vet came on Sunday and Vira was at peace at last.
Tears stream down my face as I write this. There is a giant kitty-shaped hole in our hearts and we are seemingly unable to cope with this loss. Eighteen years of memories and companionship, her placid nature and unwavering devotion a balm in the worst of times. We will have to move forward, but it seems the pain will go on in some measure for the rest of our lives. I have never been so sad.
Vira had a wonderful life with you. I am so sorry for your loss. lots of sniffles