A Broken Heart Beats in Packrat

Last night my dear, beloved companion M’ow went on to new adventures and left me behind to remember her. She had been with me since a kitten; she was 18 years old, almost 19.

Animals know, and there are usually signs of a pending farewell. Their behavior changes. Even my little “doctor” cat’s behavior changed; she started cuddling up to me, staying on my lap, sleeping with me, as if to try to buffer the heartache to come. I didn’t want to see that, didn’t want to think of saying good-bye to someone I love so much.

M’ow always had cattitude. She had been one of the first feral kittens to be born at the house. When I introduced kittens into the household, I’d have to catch them first, feed them on top of our washer to keep their food away from the dogs, and then they’d stay in my room until they and the dogs got used to the idea of other furry beings sharing living space.

M’ow marched right in when the door opened, and after she ate she jumped from the washer and marched right into the living room to lay with the dogs.

She had a favorite dog and sat on the armrest to swat at anyone, human or canine, who bothered her dog.

She had a slight underbite that made her look slightly pouty, and she was the only cat I ever knew who could frown. She was loving on her own terms. Everybody used to say that the smallest being in the house (M’ow) was also the meanest, and she felt entitled to do whatever she wanted to do whenever she wanted to do it. I called her the little queen.

I’ve been called a princess so much that someone once asked how she was a queen while I’m just a princess, and I replied it’s because I know my place.

I acknowledged that it was her house and I was the help.

She was the first cat I ever kissed and the one who received most of them. Truth be told, she was my favorite; she was why others were taken in. Before her, they had been indoor and outdoor cats who grew to a certain age and then left; she had been an indoor and outdoor cat, but then I kept her indoors.

Now I don’t know how to function. She won’t be meowing for breakfast, dinner, or treats or for fresh water. She won’t be cuddling with me wherever I am, won’t be sleeping beside me at night. She won’t be waiting for me outside doorways. She was always with me, and now she’s not.

I buried her this morning and planted flowers on her grave. She finished this life; she has eight others, and I wish she’d spend them all with me.