It’s been written that the hardest part about taking home a kitten is that one day she’ll die in your arms a cat. Was it really 1994 when my brother brought home a tiny kitten that couldn’t stand without shaking? He named her Cow Cow because with her black and white spots he figured she looked like a cow. I tried to give her a more dignified name but it never stuck. Cow Cow it was.
It was a cold for Miami October night when we first bonded. I was sleeping when I felt something in my blanket. It was Cow Cow looking for warmth. (You don’t know how desperately I wanted to add that was my first night sharing a bed with a pussy, but out of respect for the deceased I’ll stop myself.)
I felt bad for her trapped in the apartment all the time. I ‘d take her outside to the beach where she stared at the waves with fear and awe. Then she would chase after a seagull to no avail. One time she ran off and for the life of me I could not find her. Eventually she was found snuggled in the engine of a car. We grabbed her and her fate was sealed as an indoor cat.
I had just become a vegetarian when she entered my life. I had hopes of manipulating nature and making her a vegan cat. But she was a hunter and would tease and belittle the lizards she found. Leaving them with a fragment of life so she could continue to have someone to maim. I’d chastise her and blame the cruelty on her loneliness.
The years passed. She was a comforting fixture when my brother, sister, or I would come home. But cats are not statues, so it was inevitable that I got the call from my teary Mom on Saturday night. Cow Cow had stopped eating. The vet said she was in a lot of pain and that’s how life sometimes ends.
Goodbye Cow Cow. May the afterlife be filled with catnip.