AND NOW, GOODBYE

 

 Kitzee
2005 - 2022

Gone, just like that.
I had expected more - possibly a miracle. Yet, in my heart of hearts, I always knew that miracles don't exist. They languish in the comforting realms of our wishful dreams, but quickly vanish when we rudely awaken.

My sixteen-year-old cat Kitzee died late last night. In the breath of brutal winter, in the bleak midst of a dangerous time when my problems and worries have become tumultuous. In a time of anguish and isolation, when my withered soul desperately yearns for comfort and reassurance, she has left me alone.

Sixteen years is a long time. When I first got Kitzee she was a three-month-old kitten. I was reasonably young, healthy, and content. I still had optimism - which has long since abandoned me.

Kitzee and I endured a lot in sixteen years - the death of my parents, and subsequently many bad times and turbulent years. Through it all she was a faithful and loving companion, whose company always kept me going. 

She was more than just a cat, she was part of my existence.

In her advancing years I could sense that she was becoming tired. I desperately tried to ignore the inevitable fact of her eventual demise.
In sixteen years, I have turned into a weary, bitter, completely exhausted old man - existing in poverty, ill health, and squalor in rural Tennessee. My two cats were all I had left to keep me plodding forward.

Kitzee was in remarkably good health until about a week ago. Her gait became sluggish, her appetite waned, she seemed slightly confused. Her eyes became runny, nose stuffy, breathing labored. I hoped against hope that she might recover.

Yesterday she showed signs of improvement. She drank lots of water and was nibbling at food. The vaporizer that I put in the bedroom seemed to be helping. I cleaned her runny eyes and made her as comfortable as possible.

Late last night - when I was in bed with the two cats - something seemed to change. I could sense it. Kitzee had been sleeping near the foot of the bed. She suddenly got up, came over to me, and nestled on my chest. 

I instinctively knew what she was doing, but I was too cowardly to admit it.
She was saying goodbye.

I stroked her fur, scratched her head, kept reassuring her and saying how much I love her.

Then, suddenly, she leaped off the bed, went across the room, and laid under the computer desk. She made several disconcerting noises, like breaths of farewell. Then she was silent.

I called her. I kept calling for her to come back on the bed.

Her absolute silence told me everything that I didn't want to know.

                                     Jon

I took this photo of Bosco and Kitzee yesterday (Friday, Feb. 4). I truly thought Kitzee was feeling better.