There is still an indentation in the patio cushion my darling calico, Cammo, had staked out as this summer’s spot. I can’t bear to fluff it back up. Days after her painful death, I still expect her to show up first thing in the morning for a snack and a snuggle.
She just showed up one day, a very young kitten. Maybe two years ago.
A black cat had shown up a week or so before; I always figured she had come looking for him.
Eventually we knew she was here to stay. We named her Cammo because of her camouflage-like markings, white, tan, and grey. The very bottom of her chin was pale pink. She and I bonded when she was recuperating from her spay surgery. Affectionate from the start, she would lay on my lap for hours, “coned.”
Last week she didn’t show up in the morning. It was very, very rainy. I assumed she had chosen to stay warm and dry in the barn downstairs. Even still, I asked Tony if he had seen her. When she showed up on the deck late afternoon it was clear something was wrong. She just lay there. We brought her inside. She was limp. Seemingly not aware of her surroundings.
We decided that Tony would stay up with her until I would take over after a brief night’s sleep. Then, we would carry her to the vet as soon as they opened at 8 a.m. I woke up at 4 a.m. to her loud moaning. In Tony’s lap all night, she was in terrible pain. Have you ever heard a cat moan? I will never forget it. Soon after I woke up, she started seizing. She took her last ragged breath around 5 a.m.
I can’t believe she is gone. How long will I expect her little heart-shaped face to be peering through the door when I come into the kitchen to fix coffee?
A long time, I think.
