Metal Meredith

On September 28th (mark the date, please), I will turn 35 years old. This past March, my cat turned 18. She has been with me over half my life. Only my family has known me longer. In reality, she is my family.

My sister ‘found her’ under a police car in the pouring rain. My sister, who has a knack for finding helpless animals in peril, found her by initially chasing her under the car and then clamoring under there herself to drag the poor kitten out. When I came home that day, there was a teeny black and white kitten hiding under the chair. After living in a household of dogs for so long, I was overjoyed to see her tiny kitty face.

We were fast friends. She would follow me from room to room, sleep in the bathroom sink and sit on the counter and play in the drips while I brushed my teeth. She spent her evenings outdoors and would somehow just know when I was coming home, tearing from across the street as my car turned the corner. We would play a game of tag until I coaxed her inside, where we would lay on the floor and play ‘kill Meredith’s hands”. This, of course, resulted on horribly torn up skin. But it was worth it.

I moved from home to an apartment, where I did a horrible thing and brought another cat home. Poor Kee Wee never liked Griffon. They fought, she growled, he tormented. We moved again and in came Kitcha. She was just a nuisance but KeeWee didn’t like to share me with anyone at all. She had razor sharp claws that she was not afraid to use in times of anger. She has always been bitchy, but she was always faithful to me.

Phil came along and we moved into our first house. All 3 cats staked out their territory and never met except at the food and water bowls. She was finally OK with her living arrangement. Then came Vivienne. She took it quite well. Didn’t much like the crying but would jump on the arm of the rocking chair and purr at me while I fed Vivienne. I would pet her while I held Vivienne and she seemed to forgive me for the loud addition to the house.

She outlived Griffon, who died in 2004. Then Kitcha, who died one year later in 2005. We adopted Friedrich and Liesl in 2006, to amuse Vivienne and allow KeeWee some quiet time without the hyper hands of a 2 year old all over her.

If you now me well enough to read my blog, you know that these tributes only come one time. And yes, KeeWee’s one time was at noon today. I woke up to her in pretty bad shape. After all, she was 18 years old. All I asked of the vet was to attempt to alleviate any guilt I felt about making the decision. So it was made. She was only 5 pounds and skin and bones. Although her purr was strong, the rest of her was not. It was quick, she was peaceful. It was just her time to go. As sad as it is, she was with me for so long that I had prepared myself for years for this day. I am feeling relief that she isn’t suffering, that I don’t have to wonder if she is in pain anymore.

I just finished reading Rupert Everett’s Autobiography. In it, he describes the loss of his dog, Mo. I cried when I read it, maybe sensing this day to come.

“It’s a strange and extraordinary thing, life with an animal. When one comes into your life, it is so young, so full or energy, and you are old by comparison. You take on the roll of the father. But between then and his death there is a turning of the tables. Soon you become brothers. As he gets older, you become younger, so that by the end he is a grandfather and you are a thoughtless child. In denial of his great age, you force him to do things, to keep going, and he looks at you with the eyes of an elder, sitting in the shade of the village oak.”

My first baby, my best girlfriend, my old lady kitty.