Thursday, March 11, 2010


If you've ever been to our house (or cabin in Alaska) you noticed that we had four cats. Three of them are tabbies, so it was always a shock, a good surprise, when Lady would introduce herself. She was a blonde, always trim, always a hit because of her unusual color.

One of Lady's favorite things to do was bring us socks. Rugby socks. Sometimes she'd bring small stuffed animals. She have them in her mouth and she'd make this howl that sounded like she was in pain. Sometimes she'd drag our bras out into the living room. Mindy called them her "babies"-- I think because the habit started with small stuffed animals (the rugby sock babies came later in her life). Lady would drag out several babies a day; we'd come home from work, the dinning room littered with purple socks, yellow and black striped socks, a pirate from a McDonald's happy meal.

In the past months Lady started to lose a lot of weight. She went to the doctor in December and they said all the tests showed nothing unusual. She kept getting skinnier. We fed her calorie-rich wet food and some prescription wet food from the vet hospital. She didn't gain weight.

Of course, the past week I've spent most of my time at the hospital. But I noticed when I would go home, that Lady would sit in spots she didn't normally like: on the floor, in the clothes basket. She didn't bring babies; she didn't meow at me in the mornings for her wet food. Just Sunday I reached down to pet her and she nearly fell over. Mindy made an appointment for Tuesday.

I knew she was sick. Blood tests showed that she had kidney failure, and not just the beginnings. She was 16 years old. I left her at the hospital while I came back to talk Mindy. I didn't really talked. We just cried all over each other, as if anything else horrible could happen. Mindy called the vet.

Mom went with me. I was there for it all. Normally, that's not my job. I don't deal well with death, as most of you know. I especially don't deal well with animals dying. And not my Lady Fluff Pants. Lady who loved to be brushed just a little...then she'd bite the bristles and go crazy. Lady loved to have her belly rubbed, but only if you put your hand between her legs. She was our little slut. She and I were lovers in a past life. Or something like that. I'm lucky I'm not home right now; they house is empty enough.

* * *

When I came back after, well, after we put her to sleep I cried all over Mindy. I wanted to throw something out of the window. When I was younger and pissed, I'd take a basketball outside and kick it as far as I could. Then I'd get angrier because I'd have to chase it before it fell in the creek. Then I'd fucking sprint after it and kick it harder. This made me feel better.

I haven't kicked anything yet, though there is a rugby game on Saturday. I don't really feel like hitting anyone, but maybe it will help.

Last night we had a scare, some blood. We're only at 24 weeks. The doctors say 25 is a real turning point. Luckily nothing happened.

I hope the universe accepts our sacrifice of Lady. I'm not this big of a hippy, but I like to think that Lady loved babies so much, she soaked up all the negativity. I think she would do that for us. She took the bullet for us, maybe. As she went to sleep, she gave a soft little meow, like she did when she would lay socks at our feet, beside our bed, or cry for us at night time before cuddling up to sleep.

So, last night when we had the scare, I prayed to Lady. Oh, I know, praying to a cat seems silly, but it's the only thing that feels good right now, in my descent into numbness, nothingness, depression and anxiety. I asked Lady to hold on at least another week, another few weeks.

Not yet, Lady. Please, not yet.

1 comment:

  1. Christina, my heart is breaking for you and Mindy. I know that nothing i say can or will make a difference at this point. The one piece of advice that i can give you, is that at 24 weeks, your son can hear. I'm sure you've been reading all of the books, absorbing the miracle of making, carrying, and then having a baby. That being said, talk to your son. Tell him you love him. Tell him you're scared for him, that he's been in your life for 24 weeks, and already, you can't imagine your life without him. He won't understand, of course. But, he can hear.

    Studies have shown that even if babies and mothers are separated at birth, the child always remembers the sound of their mothers voice. Whether this is true or not, you are one of his mothers. It can't hurt to try, can it?

    It may be foolish to refuse to accept that this is going to turn out any way but the way you want it to. But to some degree, i believe that we each make our own fate. At this point, you need something to believe in.

    As for Lady. I'm sorry for your loss. But your belief that she "took the bullet" for you baby is anything but crazy. Animals save lives every day. Why should this instance be any different than any of the other occurrences in the past? And when you're on the other side of this, you'll have one more thing to remember and cherish your Lady for.

    I'll be thinking of all three of you. Take care.