Writing Wrongs

May 26, 2004

Last night, my very old kitty died. This wasnít unexpected. She was very old--I had her since my days of being stationed in Germany. She had slowed down this past week, but she was still eating and drinking well. I didnít think she was this close.

I brought down her medicine last night (the stuff she hated) and saw that there wasnít any point. She looked just like Sasha, my other German cat, did on the day he died. Why make her miserable with a dose of medicine that wouldnít do any good?

She was in my basement office, one of her favorite spots. She would purr and meow when I visited her, but this also agitated her, so I tried not to upset her with constant visits.

I suppose I could have loaded up the kids and made the trip to the emergency vet. I took Sasha to the vet that day. He died about five minutes after I left him to go to work. In retrospect, I wished I had kept him home instead of subjecting him to a car ride and the strange smells and people at the vet.

Katja was weak, but didnít seem to be in pain. I figured that if she hung on through the night, in the morning, I would take her in.

I sneaked downstairs one last time after putting Andrew to bed to say goodnight to her.

At two-thirty in the morning, I woke from a dream of Katja. She was curled in the crook of my knees, purring. I could feel her, hear her, yet I knew, there was no way she could make the climb upstairs or jump on the bed.

I tossed and turned for twenty minutes before heading downstairs to confirm what I already knew.

She was gone.

She was a major source of comfort during my Army days, and she had been my companion longer than Iíve known my husband. The house was so quiet this morning without her good-morning meow.

It seems strange to lose this part of me.

Charity Tahmaseb wrote at 9:40 a.m.