A farewell (written Friday, Dec. 18)

What a rotten fucking time for my blog to be down.

That thing I’ve been dreading, that has led to countless hours of anxiety and panic attacks too numerous to count? It happened this morning.

My dear old cat Whiney, age somewhere around seventeen, has passed. And I’m ok.

Lately, Whiney had been acting a bit off. She’d developed a drooling habit and wasn’t eating well. She also wasn’t drinking much.

This morning Brian woke me a little after six. I was actually awake, as I am every morning at that time, when I lie in bad, nervous as hell, waiting for B. to come in and tell me that Whiney’s ok.

Today, he said, “I think we need to take Whiney to the vet this morning.” And I knew he was right.

I went to the basement, where my mom was sleeping, and I did something I haven’t done since I was a child: I crawled into bed with her and snuggled up. “I’m tired of being everyone’s mom right now, Goddammit,” I said. “I need my momma.”

Eventually B. joined us, and we were laughing, telling all of our funny Whiney stories.

Like how she came around the chicken coop, whining, on the day we moved into my parents’ current home when I was fifteen. The previous owner of the house had a can of cat food in the fridge, labeled with our last name, since that’s what she’d been calling the little stray.

And how, on my sixteenth birthday, it was Whiney who got me to the barn to find the 1980 Mustang with the big red bow tied around it. She was so fat that everyone said she looked pregnant. The morning of my birthday, my mom woke me up and told me that I had to go to the barn, pronto, because Whiney had a surprise litter of kittens in the night. When I went to the barn to see the imaginary kittens, there was my first car.

She used to bring us snakes and birds, squirrels and crickets and mice for gifts.

And the time she took a bite out of every single loaf of bread – all seven of them – that my mom had purchased for a family camping trip.

I moved her to Columbia with me in 1994. For many years it was just the two of us. She was my friend when all my friends were flaky and drunk. She was the one who snuggled under the covers with me after yet another ugly breakup.

In 1998, shortly before I met B., Whiney was diagnosed with diabetes. I had an intense fear of needles, and I thought there was no way I could administer injections on my baby. But I did it. I would sob as I gave her the insulin shots, and in turn she would turn to me, purr, and lovingly rub my shaking hands.

We moved to St. Louis in 1999. I thought there was no way she would survive that. But she did. And thrived. She thrived through gaining a husband, Chloe, Romi, Murphy and ultimately Clara Jane.

Until the end, she always climbed atop my boobs and snuggled. Even yesterday.

B. took her to the vet first thing this morning while Mom, Clara Jane and I cuddled in the cold basement bedroom. We told our Whiney stories and laughed. And cried. We sobbed on the phone with my grandma, who’s providing a burial plot. I cried to my daddy. I cried with Kara. And I knew I had done the right thing.

B. returned home red-eyed and teary. “That was harder than I expected,” he said. She did go peacefully.

The vet was hesitant to put her down, since she was so alert. Upon further examination, he found a mass in her belly. Chemo would have bought her a few months, but for what? Eventually, the treatments would be unsuccessful.

I made the right decision.

Of course I’m sad. But I’m relieved. And glad that we caught the cancer before it became anymore debilitating and painful for Whiney. I’m at peace with her having a passing that was the result of love, compassion and respect. I’m eternally grateful that her suffering was mild and brief. I’m proud of myself for having the strength to do what was right for her, instead of keeping her alive for my own selfish comfort.

Last night, we put up our Christmas tree while Whiney dozed on the back of the armchair beside us. Many Christmases ago, Whiney and my mom’s cat Libby spent days camped under the Christmas tree hunting for a mouse and kicking each others asses. During one particularly strong ass-whupping, the mouse made a break for it and ran right into the paws of Timmy, our elderly yellow tabby. He took the mouse down with a slap and had a delightful snack of fresh mouse-head, a satisfied old man, enjoying his final Christmas with a special gift, while the young whipper-snappers fought like ninnies with no clue that the old man captured the prize.

Now, both of the young cats are gone. Libby preceded Whiney in March, 2003. Timmy died the May after the mousey Christmas. Timmy, who came to me after my grandfather’s death and comforted me when nothing else could. Whiney, who comforted me through the beginnings of my adult life. They’re gone. And I’m ok.