But I Already Love Her

 June 14, 2021

But I Already Love Her

It plays out like a movie in my head, a slow-motion sequence of the first time I ever saw her. I don't know how I got so lucky to venture into the humane society on that particular day, nearly 21 year ago. I went in for an orange tabby kitten. I got sidetracked by a year-old Abyssinian who was sickly and scrawny with worms and mites and a nasty respiratory infection and the sweetest little "mew" I ever heard. She timidly approached me when I would not leave her cage. It was love at first sight. I signed adoption papers within minutes. I had to wait a few days for her to get spayed and few more to get through the holiday closings.

When I went to pick her up to take her to her forever home, they told me that I couldn't adopt her but I could choose another cat. Her condition had worsened over Christmas, and she wasn't expected to live through the night. "But I already love her," I explained. They demurred then called a manager, and we went back and forth. They explained that a veterinarian refused to perform the spay surgery because she was too sick. Finally they relented, reiterating that she probably would not live, and they couldn't offer the normal guarantee, and that if she died, I wouldn't be refunded. I signed the paperwork, paid the fee, and promised to bring her back for spaying when she was healthy enough. On the drive home that late December day in 2000, she looked at me from the passenger seat as if she understood something: "Is it you and me now?" "It's you and me now, Abby."

I expected her to be nervous and scared in her new home and planned to sequester her for a while in the laundry room and slowly introduce her to her new brother, Primo, my collie. She lasted one minute behind a closed door before demanding the keys to her kingdom. When Primo saw her, he barked, and she ran to him, and nuzzled him. He was incensed that she wasn't afraid of him, and it took him a while to understand that from now on, he would answer to her. She loved to play with him and torment him by staring at him, and she also loved to groom him and cuddle with him in his bed. Primo was a good boy and learned to adapt to the new normal. Not long before this, he was adopted too. Now we were all family, and a really happy family.

Abby had been picked up as a stray at 38th and College, which explained her tough personality. For a long time, she went nowhere near the back door where Primo came and went. One day she ventured into the fenced yard with him, and he was such a good brother, watching over her. She liked to explore with him but always preferred to be inside.

She was my little shadow. She always wanted to be in my lap. If I got up to do anything, she would follow. If I was cooking, she'd want to sit on my shoulder. If I was getting ready to go to work or go out, she wanted to sit on the sink. If I put on mascara, she'd grab my arm to see what I was doing. At night, she wanted to sleep on my head. I admit I am powerless to cats, especially this one, and did everything she asked of me.

I remember speeding up on my commute from work at the thought of playing with her. She made me laugh so hard. I think she didn't get to be a kitten her first year, so she was making up for it now. She was affectionate, loving, curious, social, playful, and fearless. All things I wished to be. You could say she was my hero.

A whole lot of things happened in my life, and she was my witness and my confidante. There were milestones, birthdays, anniversaries, deaths, celebrations, fertility trials and tribulations and heartbreaks, fights, fallings out, divorce, depression, starting over, loneliness, new friends. And then Larry came along. And he loved them, and they loved him back. And the four of us had so much fun together. We took many road trips over the years.

Primo left us when he was 17. Abby missed him so much and tried so hard to soothe my pain. She never left my side. She was velcro kitty and laid on my chest whenever I cried. When I packed a suitcase to go to Michigan or on a vacation, she would hop in.

I guess you know now that I'm going to say the thing every pet parent hates to say. My kitty, my Abby, my beautiful companion of nearly 21 years died two weeks ago. In people years, she was over 100, and although still sweet and playful, she was dying. Her last week with us was yet another gift she gave to us. Although she slept most of the time and would hardly eat, she followed us whenever she could. On her last day with us, she sat with me in the gardens for a long time. I watched her lift her head and close her eyes as the breeze blew gently. Was she looking over her yard, her home, her kingdom one last time?

I had a notion that I would approach grief differently this time. That I would feel a celebration of gratitude for all the years she gave me. No, it hasn't been like that. I miss her. I understand she was tired and old and deserved to rest. I see her everywhere. I miss her sitting on my desk as I work. I miss her begging for our dinner. I miss throwing her treats up the stairs for her to hunt down. I miss her late night howling and early morning snuggles. I miss reading with her and letting her have my book. I miss watching TV with her, watching the back of her head and pointy little ears.

She was there for so much of my life. In addition to grief, I'm also experiencing a new pain, that is one where it sinks in how much time is behind you. You're grateful for life and sad for it all at once. I'm also going through something I've never felt before and that is not really caring about things I used to love doing. I think this is probably normal and why I don't scramble to circumvent or repress these feelings. I figure if I just let myself feel them, that in itself will lead to healing.

I sometimes wonder if I would have adopted such a cat, one who was not expected to live through the night, at this point in my life. I am fairly pragmatic, and looking back, it surprises me that I didn't just choose one of the other many healthy cats they offered me. But then I remember:

"But I already love her."

Love makes you see the things that matter. Love is the secret to life. Love is the compass. Love is a gift.