Life Stories
What I Learned From My Black Kitten
Memoirs of my dear cat… over the rainbow bridge.
My darling Roxy,
For 18 years you have been as near to me as my shadow. Then I blinked, and you disappeared. I feel your absence.
I remember that long ago Halloween evening when fate brought us together. A wisp of black fur strolling alone down my neighborhood street. You moved with such confidence. I, in contrast, was filled with anxiety and fear for your safety that night. Everything in me wanted to protect you.
Stopping the car, I called out “Hello kitty.” Without the slightest hesitation, you jumped into my life. Our journey began. How one moment can alter a life still amazes me! You were filled with surprises. Curious, bursting with energy and kitten pranks, my days resembled a frazzled Energizer Bunny beating her drum trying to herd my little one away from mayhem. You reminded me of those mommy days when I ran interference ahead of my human toddler. Little children and kittens are alike in many ways. Both can wear you out in such a wonderful way.
Discovery and experimentation ruled. Each day offered possibilities with exciting challenges and wonderful games. Getting to the mail before you did was an exercise in timing and deflection. There I was armed and ready with your toy mouse awaiting the squeaky opening of the mail shoot Sometimes the diversion worked. After a while though, you were onto me. Your tiny paw shot up, and with the precision of a tennis pro hit your target every time. My floor was covered with the day’s mail.
After the thrill of envelope swatting, a surge of adrenaline propelled you into an Olympic sprint down the hallway. Walls meant nothing. You bounded on and off them like a pinball. It made me dizzy watching you. A trail of dot-to-dot nail pricks marked your tracks. Oops! I should have known that cats and wallpaper don’t mix well. Apparently the texture of wallpaper is like tree bark to a cat. Who knew?
It would be unfair not to mention Roxy’s virtues, for they far outweigh her mischief. You recognized that a lightweight leash was a pleasurable thing. It meant outdoor walks. The minute I showed you the leash, you ran to the front door just like a dog. You couldn’t wait for the door to open. What started as a walk to familiarize you with our house lest you escaped became so much more.
You see there was a little girl who rode her trike accompanied by her aged grandmother. Neither spoke English. That didn’t hinder you. She got off her trike. You pulled toward her. Her little hands were all over you. She said kitty repeatedly while glancing back at her silent grandmother. Every day, she rode her bike waiting to see you. Sometimes, I would see her looking in the side glass door panels.
One day, there was a knock at the door. It was the girl and a young woman. The woman introduced herself as the child’s mother. She said she was from Lithuania and was the only member of the family who spoke English. She had to meet the kitty with the beautiful eyes — the one her daughter spoke of every day. I was so proud. It is a special thing to bring joy to a child, especially when a different language creates barriers and isolation. You spoke the universal language of love. A furry ambassador of good will created a special friendship between kitten and child.
When we moved, I missed experiencing what it would be like to see both you and the little child grow up together. It didn’t take long to see that children would be a sweet part of your life. Your leash walks provided safe mobility around the apartment complex that was our new residence.
Military orders mean change. The giving up of a home with a large fenced was hard. Sometimes change is a compromise for the entire military family, including the pets. Fortunately, you made adjustments without whining.
To my surprise, going to retrieve the mail became our daily adventure. As we leisurely traced winding pathways within the complex grounds, my artistic eyes opened up. I saw things in more detail while you engaged in massive grass sniffing. Slowing down to give you a chance to explore offered me that needed pause, to consider how beautifully varied the outdoor world really is.
Suddenly, leaves, tree bark, winged insects, ducks and frogs in the pond mesmerized me. For you, running into children was the highlight. They thought you were a puppy.
They were wide eyed when I told them you were a cat. Squeals of delight and surprise surrounded you like that of a rock star.
Your adoring fans bent down to pet you until your coat gleamed. I was a little anxious. You never had this many children hovering all around.
Perhaps you would become overstimulated. My fears vanished the minute you rolled over and allowed little hands to pet your belly. This was monumental. Your aim was to please.
Within a few years, we had orders to move again. We packed you up and drove across the United States to our new home. This time we had a home with an ample yard. You were ecstatic. Lots of of new critters shared your space. There were ground hogs, chipmunks, the deer, an occasional fox and plenty of chirping birds.
You stayed in our yard, mostly. Sometimes, you had to see what was over the hill upsetting our neighbor’s dog. That didn’t bother you. You had no fears. That was one time I upset you. You seemed embarrassed being carried off by your mom. You didn’t have the last word in that showdown. Your pride was wounded.
Months turned into years. No longer a wee kitten, you were reaching your senior years. Like many of us, your body was changing. It was getting more difficult to jump upon the sofa. You had to have some teeth removed. Pain was an every day part of your life. You developed a slow growing cancer in your left forefoot. After trying some preliminary options, it was apparent that full amputation was critical. The choice was remove the leg or die.
You were 16 then. We worried about the success of the surgery and how you would get around. We had some soulful conversations. The one thing that I kept seeing was that look — give me a chance. I want to live. You came through the surgery beautifully. It was very hard for me to see you hopping around. Many times you stumbled and fell off the steps we put up against the sofa. But you got up and carefully hopped slowly back up. Your efforts tired you out. Sleeping took more of your day. You would stretch out on the porch in the sun for hours.
We felt you were invincible. We were wrong. The growth in your mouth stretched your face so much that eating and drinking were painful. Even feeding with a syringe was unbearable. You lost so much weight. It was time to come to terms with the cancer. It was winning. Surgery was not reasonable given the aggressive nature of this disease. There was so much that needed to be removed, your entire mouth would need to be realigned. You would never eat without difficulty or pain even if you survived the surgery. Our decision was one every pet owner dreads. It came with a lot of tears.
My time with you, Roxy has been a wonderful blessing. You never hesitated to move toward people. Your desire to make friends is something I admire but often wait for the other person to start.
I want to play it safe. You took a risk. I fear rejection. You proceed and give it your best. You saw the gain was worth it all.
I learned that it is better to take part in life than to wait. Your joy drew people to you. They had your full attention.
Through you, I am different as a person — better for your love, your tenacity to overcome challenges, your strength amidst suffering, your courage in the face of death.
Your parting gift is the most memorable. When your life was ending, you said thank you. Your very last breath was a purr. What a peaceful, sensitive gesture to say it’s OK. I love you.
Thank you for coming into my life. I will never forget you.
Roxy loved sunny days and walked with a leash even into her old age. She adored children. They could touch every inch, even her tail and never be scratched. She treasured their embrace. Their high-pitched squeals were like music to her.
Loyal, fearless, funny and endearing describe you, my Roxy girl. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. The reason you came into my life was to teach me, as only a feline can, perseverance, courage, faithfulness and impromptu joy.
If etiquette has an entry for the proper way to say goodbye it would be to purr with all your heart. No holding back.
Thank you, Roxy for being mine.
Love, Mom
P.S. Roxy died September 14, 2019
She had cancer in the jawbone. She would have been 18 yrs. old this Halloween.
