They couldn’t house black kittens. People didn’t want to take them. We could never understand why - we think black kittens are gorgeous, so much so we took your brother as well as you and to hell with the expense, redundancy looming or not. We had a Gromit (dog) so we called you Wallis, and since we had a Wallis now we called your brother Edward. Maybe you couldn’t decide whether you were meant to be an American divorcee or a cheese-loving inventor, and maybe that’s why you were so scatty.
But you got yourself into scrapes, didn’t you? We’d had you only a few weeks when you decided to investigate a little glass jar and found your head would go into it really easily - and out, not at all. I had to rush you to the vet’s, with your meows sounding odd from inside the jar. And then about a month later we got you spayed, and you insisted on fighting with your brother as per normal, and you pulled the stitches out, and there was this pink stuff sticking out of a tear in your side, and the more you chewed at it the more it hurt… Another mad dash to the vet, after I’d full-nelsoned you into submission to stop you eating yourself alive. That was quite a scar you had there, and a serious shortage of fur where they had to shave you. But it just about had time to grow back.
Well, an hour ago you went for the big one. Kitty, a car is just too big and mean to play with. Mrs M said she didn’t have a chance to stop, and I believe her, because neither of us would have hurt a hair on your head. You used to like to be picked up and cradled like a baby, and you purred like Nimbus reincarnated (though you were born before she died) - but you won’t do that again. You were so messed up, the only comfort is that you can’t possibly have lived long enough for it to hurt.
I’ve put you next to Nimbus. She would have hated you as she hated every other animal we ever allowed in the house, but I’m sure she’ll deign to show you where to go now. You picked a bad time for this - with the long warm evenings coming and the hedges full of foolish mice and birds, I’m sure you’d have enjoyed your first summer. Your brother came and sniffed at you, your head wrapped in a towel where we didn’t have to see the frightful thing it became in one brutal instant this morning. In time he’ll understand that you’re not playing any more.
Nine lives, kitty. You were meant to make them last fifteen to twenty years - not use them up in barely six months.
My beloved Harry sneaked out of my apartment–once–for just a few minutes. When I left to go pick up toilet paper at the convenience store down the street.
He had never strayed more than five feet from our second-floor deck. The outdoors frightened him to death. I was mad at him and too impatient to stop and catch and toss him back into the apartment. I told him he was a bad kitty and he wouldn’t get any treats for awhile.
I found him when I was driving home fifteen minutes later. A big fluffy white cotton ball in the middle of the road. As warm as if he was living. Blood leaking out of his mouth. No marks on his body.
I cried so hard I thought I was perhaps mildly psychotic. I couldn’t eat. I told myself he was “just” a cat. I didn’t believe it.
I’ve lost a few tiny ones in my day. Little butter-yellow Phil, aptly named, was a lover who used to wipe my face with his tail. His brother Loomis had the most gorgeous swirly orange stripes on his sides. (We found him in the road early one dark morning as we were headed out to sell at an art show. Not many people came into the jewelry booth with the teary-faced woman behind the tables.) They’re both up on our hill, under probably the nicest grave a couple of barn cats ever had.
I buried my cat Roxie just last week, it was for the same reason. Before I moved last December I lived on a fairly quiet street and she could come and go as she pleased. Since I moved onto a street with a whole lot more traffic, she generally stayed on the porch or would venture over to the neighbors house, usually looking for someone to pet her. I let her out on a Sunday afternoon and when I called for her a few hours later, she never came. The next morning I found her in the street a few houses away. I cried like a baby while digging the hole to bury her. Roscoe, my other cat is still looking for her, he runs to the door everytime I open it so he can pounce on her. RIP Wallis and Roxie.
Malacandra and racer72, my sincere condolences for your losses.
I’m suddenly sad to be on holiday because I can’t give my own kitty some snuggles at the moment. And the Bulgarians are always telling me I’m cruel because I won’t let Max outside.
Kyla, we knew the risks, but we decided that Wallis would have a fuller life if she was allowed to come and go. It worked out fine with Nimbus and to date it has worked out with our other cats too. In a way, Mrs M said, she was glad it was her that ran over the cat and not a stranger - at least we knew straight away and could get the poor thing off the road. Not that it helped her at all, but it makes us feel better.
We’re sorry for Wallis, but we’ll let Edward (and James, our older and unrelated cat) continue to be outdoor cats. We think they will be happier that way.
So sorry about the kitty. I’ve been where you are, and one learns to live with it, but it’s never easy. You gave him a good life while he had it, that’s what counts.
I have a black kitty too, Captain Jack. He came to the clinic as a tiny little ball of fluff about 4 or 5 weeks old. He got his name because he’d often stand on his hind legs and wave his paws around like a certain drunken pirate. He would have been of adoptable age by Halloween but the shelters have told us in the past that they don’t adopt out black cats around Halloween because people may want them just for the novelty and then toss them out afterwards. So I was going to just keep him until after Halloween and send him to the shelter. He’s about 5 years old now and one of my biggest cats, a 12 pounder, solid muscle … okay, there’s a little fat. He’s also donated blood a couple times at work so he’s saved some other lives. He’s one of my sweetest cats. He likes to touch noses and I can kiss him on the head without him turning away. I’ve actually accidentally kissed him on the nose a couple times when he turned his face up as I was kissing his head. Blecch. I love my kitties but I’m not really into wet nose kissing.
People who don’t have pets just don’t understand how they can touch your lives. They’re not “just cats” they are little beings that have their own unique personalities. They bring us little joys that make it worthwhile, like a snuggle and a purr when we’re feeling lonely, protecting us from the evil moths by jumping on our heads in the middle of the night, doing something goofy when we need a laugh, greeting us when we come home from a hard day. Treasure your memories, even though there weren’t enough to fill an average cat lifetime, she was special to you and that’s what matters.
