Look, it’s cliché, but you really don’t know when the last time will be. I’ll give you some examples: There was the last time she was able to jump up on the bed. She finally gave up trying, and crawled up the stairs I had purchased after watching her struggle. Her brother and sister, barely toddlers compared to her eighteen years, run up and down the plastic steps at all hours of the day. Not quite what I intended, but okay.
The last time I would have to share a meal. She knew the routine: breakfast in the recliner, dinner at the table. There she always was, perched in her spot, waiting for the morsels to be intentionally dropped next to her feet. If the tiny bites weren’t coming fast enough, her paw would suddenly appear on my forearm; gently at first, and then increasingly insistent until I gave in. I always gave in. Then one day she wasn’t there.
The last time she chased the ever-elusive red dot. This was a new game, toward the end, mostly designed to wear her brother out so he would stop tormenting the ladies. But there she was, smacking at the dot with her foot, chasing after it with a sort of lilting gait and all the confidence of a kitten. The other two, knowing the danger of crossing that paw, would crouch across the room in anticipation of their turn. Then, one night, she just watched. Nothing could coax her into even the slightest of swipes.
The last time she ate her own food. I started giving her the soft food about a year ago, when she was showing signs of slowing down. I would lock her away in the bathroom so the other two hooligans couldn’t steal it. You’ve seen The Shining, right? Imagine them outside the door, trying to bust their way in. I caved, and bought them all the fancy bowls to enjoy their breakfast together. Their greatest (and only) moment of solidarity was when I bought the wrong kind, and they all walked away without eating it as though they would never forgive me. Then, one morning, she walked away alone.
There were some firsts, too. The first time she crawled into my boyfriend’s lap. She was my cat. I was her person. But one day I was home late from work, and there she was, curled up and drooling on him. He acted put out, but you know he inwardly melted. It’s like she just needed the warmth, and he was there, so, what the hell, right?
There really is nothing worse than the first time you bring home an empty cat carrier. No angry noises; no plaintive mews. No claws searching desperately for an escape route. To be fair, I’ve never done it twice. I’ll keep you posted, but understandably I’m not excited to test the theory out any time soon.
Look, I could continue down this road, but you know it leads to the box now sitting on my coffee table. Last times, first times, all the times in the fifteen years I had her and loved her, all led to the end. She was worth it.
