In August of 2001, I was a widow living alone. The loss of my husband was still an open wound, and most days, I simply got up, went to work, came home, ate a brief dinner and got into bed. Many people probably will read that and think that I was pathetic, but any who have lost a spouse or partner will better understand the all-encompassing effect it has on you for a long time. One day I came home and went out to fill the bird feeders only to find a tiny, dirty, sickly, little calico kitten in my yard. Her patches of white were a sooty gray, one eye was bulging and necrotic, flies buzzed around her and she was clearly undernourished. She wouldn't allow me to approach her, so I backed off and put a dish of cat food down well away from the steps. Cautiously, she neared the dish, ever vigilant and wary of any movements I made.
We went on this way for some time. When the 9/11 terror attacks hit, I was still unable to get near her. But the attempts gave me a much needed break from the constant onslaught of news coverage. Living anywhere in close proximity to New York City at the time meant that it was all we thought about. Everyone here knew someone who was there, whether they were lost or they escaped. Many people took comfort in the embrace of loved ones as a means of regaining some feeling of security, which we had all lost that day. I had no one to reach out to so I focused on that little cat. She needed me and I needed her.
Everyone in the neighborhood had seen the little cat in their yards and the people next door to me actually thanked me for feeding her. "Oh, we're so glad you're doing that. Our girls were worried about her so we can tell them you're taking care of her."
Now, I personally thought that I would want my children to see me being kind to a stray, not leaving it to others, but I guess that's just me. At any rate,as the weeks progressed, I was able to get closer each time. Just as I was hoping that I might be able to actually pet her, the idiot ... person next door came to my house to tell me that they had fleas in their yard and his wife said it was the kitten so he was going to put poison down. I was horrified. Forget the fact that they had a dog and a rabbit in a hutch, all of whom may have been responsible for the fleas, but how can you justify poisoning a tiny stray who was just trying to survive? I wanted to ask if they were going to tell their little girls about their new plan. I have no kind words for that family (and fortunately, I no longer live next to them), so I'll continue with the story.
I was now desperate to get this cat out of harm's way. So the next time I put food down and she let me approach while she was eating, I grabbed her. She was a whirlwind of teeth and claws. I wasn't able to get her in the house, so I ran into the garage and she flew from my arms. The large car door had windows in it and she had no depth perception. She leapt through the air, thinking she'd escape through the window. Like something out of a cartoon, she hit the window and slid down the door to the floor. She spent the next three days hiding behind my late husband's large mechanic's tool boxes.
Three days later she emerged out of hunger and I grabbed her again, forcing her into a carrier. The vet fit me in and I had her tested for FIV and FeLV, vaccinated and obtained flea treatment. The tests came back negative and our fates were sealed. She would join my household (which included several other cats).
Within a month, I took her in for her spay and to have the necrotic eye removed. When I called to check up on her surgery result, the vet informed me that her heart had stopped during the operation and he had a difficult time reviving her. Though she survived, the vet told me he didn't think she'd live more than a year. She was fourteen when she passed.
The years weren't always kind to her - she suffered from chronic respiratory infections and was almost always congested. But she was also beautiful, gentle and loving. She would sit on my lap for hours and purr and knead.
Though we knew she was getting frail and might not be with us in a year or two, she was gone unexpectedly. We'd been to the vet with her the evening before and he told us he was becoming concerned, but her blood work wasn't terrible and her heart sounded good. I think he was as surprised as we were when she passed away the next morning. I awoke knowing something was wrong, and I can only pray that in those last few seconds as her little body was wracked with tremors, that she felt my hand on her and knew that she was surrounded by people who loved her.
Was is worth the pain I am feeling now? Yes. Tears are streaming down my face and my heart is broken, but I will never regret giving her fourteen years. And the love she gave me in return was priceless.
