Who’s Amy? She’s the member of the household that is almost never mentioned on the blog because she distinguishes herself by her easy-going, low-key personality. Amy is my 13-year-old tortoise shell tabby cat.
The year after my parents died, I had two dogs but a cat-shaped hole in my heart. I went to the SPCA and told them I wanted to adopt a cat. They asked, “What kind?” I didn’t have a preference for appearance, but I told them I wanted “one of those lovey-dovey cats.”
“Ah,” the shelter worker said knowingly, “You want Amy.”
She walked into a big room filled with cat kennels from floor to ceiling, opened the one she was looking for, and handed me a petite six-month-old cat, who immediately snuggled into my neck and started purring.
I never even looked at another cat. Amy was The One. She arrived with the perfect personality and a name to match—it means “beloved” or “friend.”
I filled out the paperwork, signed a contract promising to have her vaccinated and spayed, never have her declawed, and keep her indoors always.
She’s been the most low-maintenance pet we've ever owned. In her 13 years with our family, she’s never had to visit the vet for anything other than a yearly physical and vaccinations. She has no bad habits, is a little shy with strangers, gentle with children, and sweet and affectionate with family.
When we moved to Belgium, I allowed her to begin sleeping with us in our bedroom. Every night right after I climb into bed, she walks up the length of my body, lies down next to my chest, and then after 10 minutes or so, walks to the bottom of the bed and curls up by my feet.
When she performs that routine, it's like she is tucking me in.
Last night she seemed subdued and not herself. Her breathing seemed a bit labored, which made me think she was uncomfortable. She had a hard time getting up and around and we ended up settling her into a posh cat bed on the floor for the night so she wouldn’t be jostled by our movements and could easily get food and water.
Without her on the bed, I couldn’t sleep. I stared into the darkness with anxiety stabbing at my heart knowing that Amy is cruising toward her 14th birthday, that last night her spine felt too prominent when I ran my hand down her back, that she’s even more reserved than normal.
In my life as an animal lover, I’ve realized that so many psychological issues become enmeshed in caring for or losing an aging pet. We see the inevitability of physical decline and the indignity of it, even for animals. We feel helpless and know there’s only so much we can do, and when we say goodbye we mourn not just the pet we loved but the era they shared with us. It’s not just the end of their life but the end of another chapter in our own. If you’ve ever lost a pet, you know what I mean.
So it’s off to the vet today. I know from experience with other cats in other times and places to expect blood draws and tests on kidney function. I don’t know what her prognosis will be, but I know what’s inevitable given her age. And I know that I am not ready to have an Amy-shaped hole in my heart.
January 23, 2005
Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. www.v-grrrl.com