You were a good cat. Except for the snotty sneezes. And the fact that you mostly refused to use your litterbox. And the cat barf first thing in the morning. But somehow I was able to overlook all of that because you were sweet and soft and you always chose me over everyone else in the family.
Just a short 13 1/2 years ago it was you and I against the world. You made coming home to my one-bedroom apartment a joy each day. I remember pulling into my parking spot and seeing you sitting in the big picture window. By the time I made it to my door you were there, meowing on the other side, as I put the key in the lock. It's amazing how much has changed since then. We moved. I got married. We adopted a dog (you always thought she was such a sucker, wagging that tail and doing what she's told). You grumpily accepted each of the new members of our family as three children were born. And you grew to love them. Especially when they left just a little melted ice cream in the bottom of their bowls.
These last couple of years were tough, though. I often asked myself if you were still happy. Still enjoying your dark, quiet life. As a good friend said the other day, you were the Helen Keller of cats. Your soft fur was matted and the snot that landed on your face after a sneeze attack stayed there until I wiped it off. You wandered the house lost and confused, walking into walls and furniture. After searching and searching for the couch, you would slowly make your way up (I remember when you could jump from the floor to the top of the couch in one soaring leap) and hunker down for the day. As I came and went with my daily activities, the kids running and jumping around you, you never noticed. Never moved. The only time you raised your head was when one of their little hands would brush over you (Lily would say, "I pet your kitty, mom."). And you'd make that funny bird chirping sound you've always made when something surprised you.
But then, after the kids went to bed, the house would settle down and you would still manage to find my lap. We would cuddle and you would purr. And I would tell myself, maybe selfishly, that you were still happy. At least for those few moments at the end of the day. You were happy.
So when you were sick, and I had to lock you in the bathroom downstairs to keep you from making messes everywhere you went, I realized I had to face reality. I could fight to make you better, to cure whatever was wrong with your stomach, but for what? Cure you so you could continue to walk around, meowing in confusion, scared at every turn that you were going to walk into a corner or fall down the stairs?
You're better now. And I mostly believe I made the right decision. The one you would have wanted me to make for you. I don't miss the poop, or the puke, or the snot. But I miss you. And I love you. And you will always be my Mona.
Love,
Sara
