It happened very suddenly late yesterday, and a trip to the animal hospital confirmed that her afflictions were undetectable previously, and only taking monumentally extraordinary procedures would stand any chance of keeping her alive now.
We were not going to subject a ten year old cat to the incredible pain and suffering that would cause her--especially since the odds just overwhelmingly favored she'd never survive the attempt.
So, we said our goodbyes, and let her know it would be ok, that when she woke up, the pain would be gone and there's be a gigantic fish dinner awaiting her. I like to think she understood the intent, if not the words.
Her passing was quick and painless, frankly, a relief after having seen her endure the previous few hours.
She had spent ten years as a good companion along life's journey. She would sit and watch Celtics games with me, only turning away if they played the Bobcats--I could hardly expect her to root against her own species, after all.
She knew my morning routine better than I did, accompanying me to the bathroom and kitchen, both of us eating breakfast together.
I knew that if I sat at the computer, she'd sit next to my chair, occasionally standing on her hind legs, with her forepaws on my leg, demanding kitty skritch.
She actually claimed a stuffed bear as her own, sitting on top of it until we gave in. She also liked a stuffed "Tom" from "Tom and Jerry" that sat on the couch.A fish dinner was never safe with her around, we learned early on to keep an eye on her location relative to the plate, eat quickly and rinse the plate immediately afterwards.
She was never very noisy, or destructive, an excellent apartment kitty we got from the pound.
Minerva was never really one of those "crawl into your lap and sit for hours" kind of cats,but if my wife or I bumped into something, or started coughing, she always ran right over to make sure we were ok. She was more the "I'll sit next to you" sort of cat.
She was good company, rare in any species.
This morning, we took her to a friend of a friend, who had a place where it was permitted to bury pets, and graciously allowed us to put Minerva to rest in a warm sunny spot.
And now, after a few generations of cats spread out over a quarter century, for the first time, there's no cat here. While the idea of not having to worry about tripping over a cat, or changing litter boxes, or checking food and water in the bowls is somewhat appealing, I miss the company, and am considering the notion of getting a kitten someday.
I'm not expecting a new kitten, assuming I get one, will be anything like Minerva. Cats are as individual as snowflakes, and just as impossible to predict. But cats have been a part of my life too long to stop now.
I miss my friend Minerva, and will for some time to come. But the notion that the circle will eventually start again makes it a little less painful.
Mike
