“The story of life is quicker then the blink of an eye, the story of love is hello, goodbye.”  

      ~ Jimi Hendrix

You came into my life at a time of great sadness.

I’d just lost Calypso in a freak accident at the vet while I was in Paris. She died while getting her teeth cleaned. I came home to Romeo and bad news. We were both lost in sadness, Romeo and I, wandering around the house, feeling that something was missing.

48 hours later, I went looking for you, and you chose me at the SPCA. You were six months old. I called you my Monkey Girl because of your long legs and tail, and stiletto paws.

You climbed my Christmas tree. 

To the shock of my landlord and myself, you loved the feel of the grass cloth wallpaper in my apartment, and shredded it with your claws. I had you declawed before it was politically incorrect to do so.

I was 31 years old. 

I’d returned to New England from Northern Virginia for a relationship that didn’t work, and fell apart during that fateful trip to Paris. I was newly single again and trying to re-establish myself, and my life, in a new form. 

You loved your belly rubbed and snuggled at every opportunity. You calmed me and made me happy. For 17 years, we traveled through life, side by side. You were a witness to my whole life; me as a single woman, a married woman, a mother, a divorcee. You consoled me when my marriage ended and reminded me daily that I am loved unconditionally.

When you were 15, you were diagnosed with thyroid disease. For two years, I gave you medicine in your ear followed by a treat twice a day.

Three weeks ago, you didn’t want your evening treat. No kitty crack? I knew something was wrong, but I was hoping I was wrong. The next morning, I took you to the vet. When we arrived, you could walk. Two hours later, you could not.

I held you for six hours.

And I cried.

I had to decide how your end would come, and I didn’t want to have to make that decision.

I told you everything I loved about you; your purr, the way you “talked” to me when I got out of the shower, the way you loved to climb on my massage table and demand to be massaged. The way you slept with me every night at the foot of the bed while I was married, and on the “passenger side” when I was not.

You were my best girl.

I laughed and told you what I would not miss; why did you lick plastic bags?! I hated that! The way you would lick me that gave me the shivers—and not in a good way. I knew then that I would miss everything. And one month later, I do miss everything, and I am grateful for everything.

Toward the end, you didn’t move at all. You’d stopped purring. You just lay on my chest, looking at me, peaceful, until your last act of kindness. You raised your head and brushed your face against my chin, back and forth, resting your head on my chest before doing it again, for about 10 minutes. I know you were telling me you love me too. 

Then you stopped moving.

I made the decision to help you with your transition after a lot of soul searching, and around 6pm—24 hours after you refused your evening treat—you left the physical plane and I was left with just your memories and your picture.
You were the best cat I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing my life with.

What do you do when a good friend dies?

You grieve. You sob. You remember. Ultimately, you breathe. And eventually, you laugh. Finally, you find peace again. But never. Ever. Do you forget. The love lasts forever.

(In memory of Clementine Hackett and Max Schott.)

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          Apprentice Editor: Brenna Fischer / Editor: Renee Picard 

         Photos: Author’s Own