Yesterday morning, the fat kitty was crying for water. I was running out the door to work, but who can ignore the cries of a kitty?
So I trotted downstairs and saw that the water was the reason, and turned to look for the small kitty. There she was, in the other room, lying down on the floor, on her side, with her legs stretched out, like she wanted to play. I would "psst psst" at her, and her tail would flick.
"Psst, psst, kitty," I said.
Nothing. My heart dropped. I looked closer. No movement at all in her middle. I ran in and turned on the light.
My kitty was dead. Lying on the floor, as if she was soaking up a ray of sunshine. Stiff, so very, very stiff.
My poor, old kitty. I petted her, and cried and cried. I ran upstairs and pleaded with my husband, who had railed against the cats for the past year, saying he wanted me to get rid of them. Tears streaming down my face, as I filled the water container in the tub, telling him my kitty was dead and would he please have some compassion and not make jokes?
And my daughter. My precious daughter.
"Mama, what's going on? Why are you crying? Are you hurt?"
"Yes, baby, mama's hurt in her heart."
"Oh, here, " and she walked across the bed, and kissed the middle of my chest, right where I had pointed. "There, all better."
I had to go to work, then came home on my break to take kitty to the Dumb Friends League, who would dispose of her body properly.
I'll post a photo one of these days. They are all on regular photos, not digital, as most of the photos were taken during her first few years of life.
She was 16 years old, and I had her with me since my first month of teaching. My entire career up until now, she was here.
And now she's gone.