A Piece of My Heart

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Our oldest cat Paws died tonight. She had been failing for weeks, so I knew her days were numbered. Watching her grow weaker every day and knowing there was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable was agonizing. I didn’t want her to suffer, but at the same time I didn’t want to let her go. Every day that she stayed with me was a gift and during her last two days I was able to be near her, comfort her, and let her know how much she meant to me.

Paws was part of our lives for 14 years and 7 months. She was born under my son A’s bed, the offspring of a pregnant barn cat that we adopted. Paws initially went to the home of one of my son B’s friends, but she was returned to us when the family discovered their live in babysitter/cousin was allergic to cats. Paws’ mother Phantom and her brother Goliath had bonded by the time Paws came back to us, so she was always an outcast. Goliath was the big lovable one and Phantom was my lap cat. Paws was the one we hardly noticed. She was quiet, independent, and didn’t seek our attention. After the others died, Paws was basically an only cat even though we had seven other cats. Our younger cats were kept upstairs because they harassed Paws and our two older dogs dislike cats. Paws was much older and not very active, so she could coexist with the dogs and could easily be separated from them.

My life with Paws fell into a pattern. Every morning she would greet me, meowing a hello and beckoning me to her food dish or water bowl. When I sat down at the computer after breakfast Paws would come to me to have her head scratched and then she would share my chair with me. When she wasn’t next to me she would sit in the “old lady chair” in the living room, on the floor in a patch of sunlight, or on the round table next to the window where she had a good view of the front yard. If there was a thunderstorm, she would sleep under our bed because storms scared her. Most nights she slept in her chair in the living room and if she got bored, she would scratch at the bedroom door.

Paws died in the same room where her mother died next to the room were she was born. I wish she could have been with us for many more years, but I take comfort in the fact that she had a good life. The house is empty without her. I know as the days pass I will look for her in her old familiar places and maybe, before I remember that she is gone, I will catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. She will always be with me.

“Another cat? Perhaps. For love there is also a season; its seeds must be resown. But a family cat is not replaceable like a worn out coat or a set of tires. Each new kitten becomes its own cat, and none is repeated. I am four cats old, measuring out my life in friends that have succeeded but not replaced one another.” ~Irving Townsend
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