9 Lives, 18 Years
November 6th, 2008
I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a crazy cat lady, but I admit that I’ve been known to lurch after the occasional feline on the street from time to time. My love for cats began when I was 7 years old, the day my mom brought home Allegro. Yesterday, we had her put to sleep when it became clear that her health had deteriorated past the point of an enjoyable life. In between my crying fits and moments of tranquility, I’ve managed to find solace in some of my favorite memories of her.
Her sense of entitlement was comical. She once pulled a Thanksgiving turkey carcass off of the counter and into her bowl of Friskies, completely unaware that the bird weighed a good 2 pounds more than her and that we had all been counting on leftovers.
She was sophisticated. This didn’t just include her fondness for Burberry and diamond collars (I never had the heart to tell her they were all fake), but also her ritual of sleeping on top of the Style section.
Lastly, she had an uncanny ability to cheer me up when I was sad. Whether she heard something in my voice or detected it my body language, she always found a place for herself on my lap during hard times. From now on, that memory will have to suffice as I mourn her loss and celebrate her life.
