the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

I can't tell you exactly how old she was. Fifteen, maybe. Cindy Wilson, a woman who worked with me in Montgomery when I was a first lieutenant, had gotten her from a shelter. She named her Gracie, in hopes that someday the cat would develop some grace. :) She had another cat, too; Gracie and he were pals. After a weekend in which her son stayed with her ex, he came home and re-developed what turned out to be allergies, and she knew she had to get rid of at least one of the cats. Her son loved cats, so her plan was to find a good home for one of them and try to keep the other (and the house) clean enough that her son wouldn't have to live without cats (which is precisely what I'd do, were I in her shoes). 

I think he was more attached to the male, so she asked around at work--complete with an adorable picture via email--about a possible new home for Gracie. I saw the picture and said I'd go over after work and "take a look." 

It's good to be queen.  

We all know what that means. :) 

I came home with Gracie. She was skittish, like any cat plunked down in new surroundings, but quickly settled in, despite Pita's vehement distaste for her (Pitacat felt like that about any cat she had to share me with, though). Not long after that, Michelle and I took Maxx for a walk through the neighborhood and stopped to chat with Jane, another coworker. Jane lived a half mile from our house. While we were talking, we heard a cat yowling plaintively. I asked Jane if she had a cat. She said no...her dogs would just eat it. About that time, a dangerously scrawny grey "teenaged" cat walked out of the bushes, purring audibly. He walked straight over to Maxx and wound in and out of Maxx's legs, purring violently and ignoring Maxx sniffing him. I picked up the cat and could feel his bones. His hair felt like straw. He had a cow tick the size of a marble behind his right ear. I plucked the thing off and scratched him; he made biscuits on my shoulder. 

We ended up taking him home, too. We quickly learned that he had an intestinal obstruction, which explained his gross malnourishment. A visit or two to the vet and we had that fixed (turns out, you can sometimes just give cats hairball medicine three times a day until they can poop again). Soon after, we integrated him with Gracie and Pita. We named him Phlebas. 

I think he was dropping hints here. 

I mention Phlebas here because he and Gracie bonded, and hard. They played and slept together for years. (I'm sure Pita was invited, but she was too good for them.) 

One of hundreds.

Cats are kittens forever. 

...and surfing the internet...

She's been fuzzy happiness to me since we adopted her eleven years ago. I think you can tell. 

She stopped eating a couple of weeks ago. We took her to our vet, who gave us antibiotics and painkillers and a referral to a specialist. The ran tests of all sorts; she had an infected kidney. He gently suggested that we let her go. 

The needed surgery offered too much pain and too little hope, so we brought her home. Today, she refused to eat again, and distanced herself from everyone and everything, so we made the call. 

She purred all the way to the vet on my lap and purred while we waited for the doctor. By the time the doctor showed up, she was struggling to breathe. She used the last energy she had, I think, reassuring us. 

At least, that's how I want to think of it. She was gone, without a twitch, within five seconds of the injection. She has been ready to go for much, much longer than we were ready for her to go. 

She's at peace. We hurt, but she's at peace. No more pain. It was time. 

Goodbye, sweet girl. 

d