Our Rainbow Bridge cats
Coonmora Friendly Fire of
Pinecoon was the
dearest boy. He had the tiniest little squeak
of a voice imaginable, except late at night when he was carrying his toy
chipmunk around in his mouth and howling the rafters down. He was our little hairdresser, never happier
than when he was lying on John's chest, grooming his beard, or clinging to my
neck like a baby monkey. He had been
acquired as a breeding male by Betsy of Pinecoon, but when the hormones hit,
they made him terribly miserable, so Betsy did the humane thing and had him
neutered and let us adopt him. We had
him for seven wonderful years. He was a
sweet, affectionate, gentle soul, 18 pounds of timidity and love.
He was in
perfect health as far as anyone could see, right up until we found him lying at
our feet dead. Just a couple hours
earlier, he'd been romping around, happy as could be that I'd brought home a
New! Bag! of Kibble! - always
one of his favorite things. He was
prancing about, getting under our feet, letting me
know if so much as a millimeter of dish bottom was visible, just as
always. We were sitting on the couch
talking, and I looked down, and Fire was lying on the floor. This was unusual, as he never laid on the bare floor like that; he always found something
to lie on, even if it was a shoe or a piece of newspaper. He was already gone, although he was still
warm. He'd tried to come to us for love
as he died. I think his little heart
just stopped.
We buried
him the back garden in a box John built for him, and wrapped him in his
favorite fuzzy blankie - his love object (he wouldn't mate with girlcats, but you
couldn't keep him from mating with fuzzy blankies), and his beloved
chipmunk. He has a lilac planted over
him. We miss him dreadfully.
1999-November
30, 2008
Tristan
Jones was our little adopted stray tuxedo cat. Tristan was named
for the Welsh sailor, author of many wonderful sailing stories, Tristan
Jones. Tristan's nicknames were Vampire Cat and Leech, both because of
his habit of smurgling - licking and kneading any exposed patch of skin,
purring madly. Tristan was a bicolor shorthair - the color pattern is
called a tuxedo for obvious reasons. He was diagnosed with lympoblastic
lymphosarcoma when he was only 3-1/2 years old. We sorrowfully euthanized
him the day before the winter solstice, 2000, and planted a rosebush in the
garden in his memory.
He was also known by the nicknames The Borg (owing to his persistence in crawling up onto the chest of anyone lying down), and Roadkill, owing to - well, look at the second picture! We miss our poor old kitty; he was probably about 11 when we adopted him, and he died of kidney failure earlier this year.
Jigger was my baby, the first cat I ever had. She slept on my chest for ten years. It broke my heart when I lost her (to antifreeze poisoning), and I have never let a cat outside since. I still miss my Jigger.
Fractal was one of the most timid, and one of the most sweet, cats I've ever had. She was afraid of everyone but me and John. She died three years ago at age 7 of diabetes, after fighting it for a year. The day I had her euthanized (because she was suffering dreadfully), I went home feeling horribly guilty and miserably sad. A strange cat came in the back sliding door, climbed into my lap, and slept there for several hours. I never saw that cat again. I still think Fractal sent him to tell me it was okay, she was ready to go.
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