“LITTLE KITTY”

JULY 23, 2020 – I’m allergic to cats, but that didn’t stop my family from taking in a feral, three-week-old (so said the vet) kitten in distress our young boys found under the porch at the Red Cabin in October 1999. They named it “Koosh,” because it looked like an all-gray “kooshball.”  It developed the personality of an affable dog, and we love him dearly.

Some three years later, a woman in my wife’s office offered her another “cute kitten.” Despite my allergy, I acquiesced in adding to our household, a feline companion for Koosh. For the first few weeks, we called the new kit on the block,“little kitty,” but one day our younger son’s Spanish tutor translated “little kitty” for us: “Gordita.” That perfectly endearing name didn’t stick, however, and “little kitty” became nothing more than “Little Kitty.”

Except she didn’t remain a little kitty. She became a very fat cat. Whereas the lithe Koosh slinked effortlessly down the staircase as if running down a perfectly smooth incline, Little Kitty negotiated the steps one big “thumpity-thump” at a time.  Both cats were strictly indoor felines, but in the worst way, Koosh wanted to be free and wild—open an outer door and before you knew it, he’d zip between your legs for the great outdoors, even if he’d been snoozing a moment before in a far corner of an upstairs bedroom. Little Kitty? Absolutely no interest in being outside. Any visitor to the house received an immediate enthusiastic greeting from Koosh, while Little Kitty rushed away as frantically as her girth would allow and hide for the duration of the visitor’s presence. Koosh liked to cuddle and converse, but Little Kitty wanted nothing to do with us—or Koosh—though she’d meow her disapproval if we didn’t deliver food to her dish on time, every time.

Sadly, Koosh died—kidney failure—before his time. We all were heartbroken by the loss of such a dear friend.

Little Kitty just kept on going—and going and going and going. I mean, “lying around and ambling to and from her food dish, water bowl, litter box, and any one of a number of lounge  spots.” Eventually, old age crept up on her lazy life-style and diffident personality. She shed all her excess weight and ultimately, weight that wasn’t excess. But she kept on . . . living.

Until she didn’t. Down to a sack of bones, her appetite gone, even instinct for hydration lost, she slipped into the long, final stretch.

Yesterday, my wife and I took her to the vet to say good-bye. The good doctor was a paragon of kindness and compassion.

In human years, “Little Kitty” was 126 years old. She led an unremarkable life and left an unremarkable impression, except . . . she was a living creature and in her own quiet way, she graced our household. If she thought herself a queen, I’ll allow it—admitting, as I do, that I’ll miss her.

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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson