Good Night, Sweet Darling

By Editor |

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

More than four years ago I took in two cats from a neighbor who died.  They were mother and son, and I don't mind saying that I liked the mother more than the son.  She was a sweet, gentle, petite cat who didn't seem to have a bit of meanness in her.  We developed a close relationship, although the rancor in my relationship with the son often affected my relationship with the mother.  Her name was Tillie, and she's pictured above.  In the picture she looks a little smug and self-satisfied, but she was an unassuming animal.

Tillie was a bit of an oddball.  Our nightly ritual serves as an example:  She would jump up on the bed and start pawing the covers to make me lift them.  I would lift the covers, but she wouldn't go under.  She would peek under the covers and think about it a bit.  After a while I'd put the covers down, and we'd do it all over again:  She'd paw and peek and try to decide.  This could happen four or five times, and in the process she might duck under the covers to see how she liked it, and then duck out again.  As part of the ritual she might cross over to the other side, which would involve walking over my chest.  At times the nightly ritual seemed irritating, but now I wish she were here to do it with.

Tillie's tail was curved, popping up from her rear end and then drooping down.  After pooping she would sometimes dip her tail in the poop, so I'd always be checking her tail to see if it needed cleaning.  On more than one occasion she left the bathroom with a turd stuck to her tail.  It sounds disgusting, but it was part of the humor that was Tillie.

She was most adorable to me when she was running down the stairs to go outside.  She was all black, with white paws and chest, and in the semi-darkness of the stairs it was her little white paws and her little white anus that I would see scurrying down the stairs.  I must have really loved her if I thought her anus was cute.

My relationship with the son was always contentious, and I occasionally looked for a new home for him.  Tillie and the son didn't get along, so separating them was never an issue.  It was always my hope that I could find a new home for the son, and then live with Tillie alone.  I wanted to take care of Tillie in a loving environment instead of the tension-filled environment that the son and I created.  Well, after moving into a new apartment, the son ran away (he had run away before, so I wasn't worried); but then Tillie got sick on that very same day -- so I never had my chance to do right by Tillie in a nice environment.  During the four days that we lived alone together, she was miserable, unable to eat or drink and becoming increasingly hungry and dehydrated.  By the end she was suffering and crying loudly.

About three months ago Tillie started to drink more water and urinate more often.  I knew there was something wrong, but I couldn't deal with it at that time because I was preparing to move.  It turns out that she had end-stage renal disease, and there was no cure for it.

Although I've come to hate vets because they are money-grubbing like everyone else in the medical profession, the vet put her to sleep in a sensitive way.  They took me to Tillie's cage, where I was able to pet her and snuggle with her for 15 minutes or so.  Poor Tillie was so weak that she could barely move (she was no longer dehydrated because they had put an IV in her, but she was still starved).  I petted Tillie for a long time, and snuggled with her (she always smelled wonderful).  Despite her weakened condition, she purred.  When Tillie started to look tired, I called the vet in, who first put a shot of anesthetic in the IV, and then put in the barbiturate.

I buried Tillie in the yard where she lived most of her life, and it was strange to handle her limp and lifeless body.  Even in death she felt soft and cuddly, and she was still adorably cute.  I curled her up in a narrow grave so that it looked like she was sleeping.  It wasn't easy to throw the dirt on her.

I ended up crying eight or nine times over several days, grieving more intensely than I did when my parents died.  And I am now filled with regret for not having treated her with more love.  During the four years that I owned her, I scolded her much more often than I needed to.  She was always getting in the garbage, and I would scold her and give her a swat for doing that.  Also, she was so devoted to me that she always wanted to sleep in a spot where she could see me, even if she was in another room and had to watch me through a doorway.  But that made me self-conscious, so I would sometimes move her to another spot, and I would scold her if she moved back.  Instances like that, when I disciplined her though it wasn't necessary, or when I just shooed her away because I was busy, are now coming back to haunt me.  Tillie was my "significant other", but I just didn't realize it.

In my dining room, near the hiding place where she slept while she was sick, the bowls that contain her final meal and water (untouched by her because she was too sick to eat) are still on the floor.  I can't bring myself to remove them.

In all my life, I've never been loved by any human being the way that several of my cats have loved me.  That's quite a statement on the pitiful quality of my life, but it is also a statement on the purity and intensity of the love that animals feel.  I am going to miss that darling little creature.