In memoriam, in reflection

Wow. When God said Choochie would go suddenly, He wasn't kidding. I had been instructed to take her back to the vet if she didn't poop within 48 hours; so since she went about 96 hours without pooping, I took her back to the vet. I explained that if she couldn't be helped, I would consider having her put to sleep. The doctor said Choochie didn't look good and that if she were her cat, she would euthanize her. So, early Monday evening, about three days after her kidney-disease diagnosis, my Choochie was put to sleep. She was 17 years old and weighed only 3.08 pounds.

This post is dedicated to her memory.

This is my favorite photo of Choochie and Macho together. (Choochie is the sassy kitten on the left.) I think I took it around February 2001, shortly after she had gotten spayed. Macho was still my roommate's cat and happened to be hanging out in my room when I took the picture.

Through the years, one thing that God put on my heart about my feisty little cat was this: He designed Choochie just for me. Everything about her -- her friendliness, her adorableness, her petiteness, her sweetness, her endearing tendency to trill instead of meow, the fact that she was mixed-Siamese (a breed known for its longevity) -- was designed with me in mind.

I think God made sure that I ended up with her. A friend of mine knew that I wanted a cat, found out that a friend of hers wanted to get rid of her kitten, and told me about it. She said that her friend was trying to find a home for a sweet, white, mixed-Siamese kitten who had been scratching their three-year-old daughter because they couldn't afford to get the kitten declawed. This was back in 2000 when I was battling depression, so when I met Choochie, I wasn't all that impressed. I put her in a borrowed pet carrier (which later became mine), placed her in the back seat of my car, and drove her home. At one point, she fussed while I was driving, so I reached back, poked my fingers through the pet carrier, and pet her. When it was safe to look back, I noticed that she had closed her eyes and was purring while I was petting under her chin.

That was when I fell in love with her. (And I guess you could say that I rescued her from being declawed.)

About a month and a half later, I went on a mission trip to Boston for a week. My roommate informed me that Choochie pooped in the corner of the living room (under a TV cabinet) in my absence, which I'm assuming was in protest of my absence. When I returned from my trip in the wee hours of the morning, I remember sitting on the edge of my bed with Choochie perched and purring on my thigh.

Almost a week after that, I had an emotional breakdown and drove out of town to escape everything. While I was away, I remember eating dinner at a Pizza Hut and looking out the window. A cat who looked like Choochie was hanging around a Dumpster, and I suddenly wanted to go back home. Almost immediately after I did, I attempted suicide, and I included Choochie in my suicide note. (I mentioned that my roommate could have her.) Fortunately, my suicide attempt didn't work, so I kept my kitten.

Unfortunately, as a consequence of my actions, my roommate wanted me to move out for a little while, and a retired couple who opened up their home to me wouldn't let me bring my kitten due to allergies. So, while I lived in my temporary housing situation, Choochie stayed at my roommate's house, and I would drive 30 minutes (one way) nearly every day just to see her. The photo I shared several paragraphs ago was taken shortly after I moved back in.

Several months later, I moved out again because my roommate was preparing to move overseas as a missionary, so her parents began the process of selling the house. When Choochie and I moved into an apartment, Macho came with us because my roommate didn't want to pay to have him shipped to her overseas. A few months after that, my roommate returned and informed me that Macho was my cat now, and the rest is history. (Macho was my cat for about 14 years; Choochie was my cat for about 17 years.)

So, Choochie and I had a very meaningful history together. And she was excellent at teaching me lessons without even trying. God taught me a lot about how He feels about me through her, and I've blogged about that a lot through the years.

When she was spayed, I borrowed money for the procedure, and I took her to a discount pet clinic that didn't give her one of those cone-of-shame collars but instructed me to keep her inside her pet carrier instead. While she was healing, I remember placing her pet carrier onto a table, scooting it close to my bed, and hearing her purr in the dark. (In other words, I can enjoy being close to God during a trial.)

When the three of us moved from Central Texas to West Texas, I placed both my cats inside the same pet carrier on the front seat of my car. During the six-hour drive (or so), we ended up highway-traveling late at night. Macho would groan-meow from time to time, but Choochie was purring in the dark. (In other words, if God takes me somewhere and I can't see where we're going, I can enjoy the ride because He's with me and He's taking care of me.)

Sometimes when I would ask God if I needed to do or be anything different than what I was (I would ask this because I was being insecure), He would remind me about Choochie. When she would groom herself, eat, drink water, etc., would it be ridiculous of her to ask me if she was doing it right? Yes, of course it would. She was being a cat. She was being herself. (In other words, I need to be myself. I need to be ME.)

Choochie was an excellent little companion. It was normal for her to perch her furry little self next to my cereal bowl and purr while I was eating. (Most of the time, she wouldn't try to sample my breakfast.) One time several years ago, when I was hit with very deep emotional pain late at night, I unplugged and let myself cry like I had never, ever cried before. It was nearly 2 a.m. on a Saturday night, I was lying in bed, and Choochie wildly wiped her cheek on the palm of my hand in an effort to comfort me. And recently (as you may have read in this previous post), she developed the routine of snuggling on my pillow at night. The day before she was euthanized, she was well enough to snuggle on my pillow that morning one last time.

 

I took this picture of her several months ago. She didn't really change much throughout her life. She's always been tiny and adorable.

Earlier this year, I caught her trying to poop in the living room, which wasn't a normal activity for her (at least, not since I had been in Boston 17 years ago). Then gradually, I noticed that her business would end up missing the litterbox. I also noticed that she started peeing differently in the litterbox and wouldn't cover up her messes. I did some research online and learned that sometimes elderly cats become constipated and act the way she had been acting.

After I received her kidney-disease diagnosis the other day, everything made sense. The day that she was euthanized, the vet explained that the constipation was just a symptom of Choochie's kidneys shutting down and her body not being able to process water correctly.

Macho's death was kind of a dramatic, romantic one that helped me prepare a little bit for what to expect with Choochie, even though she was -- in contrast -- her usual feisty self to the very end. It was almost comical. Right before I decided to take her to the vet one last time, she was purring in her usual motorcycle-lawnmower way, and she severely protested me transporting her in her pet carrier. Right before the euthanasia drugs were administered, I had a hard time getting her to calm down. She kept pacing and squirming. But the veterinary staff gave us a lot of time alone. I talked to her like I always would before bedtime, and she finally settled down when the doctor came into the room.

Since I knew that Choochie would die suddenly, it had become my habit to always check her little belly to make sure she was still breathing while she was napping. So, it was really something to be able to check her little belly one last time after she had been put to sleep and notice that she had stopped breathing. The vet turned Choochie's body around so that I could see her face. Um, her tongue was sticking out, and one of her eyes was still open, so...

 

Yep, she kinda looked like an emoji. I'm not sure whether I should laugh or cry. Maybe I should do both.

Now, for the first time in years, I live in a home without cats. It's the little things that are currently weird for me. Coming home to an empty apartment, not having to feed anybody at a certain time, not having to clean a litterbox, not having to warn anybody when I'm about to turn on a light or do anything noisy like turn on the garbage disposal, not worrying about tripping over any water bowls -- those are all strange things for me right now.

And I definitely miss my little girl cat. Since she was with me for 17 years, I can still remember her vividly. I can still feel her little paws on my fingertips. I can still feel and hear her purring. I can still hear her scratching around in the litterbox. I can still smell her bundle of mixed-Siamese fur.

She was the best girl cat that a girl could ask for. She will always have a special place in my heart.