Little Mama, one of Fran’s and my adopted feral cats, died yesterday, and we are devastated. We made the heartbreaking decision for her to be euthanized after several weeks of an illness that led to her refusing to eat and rapidly losing weight and even losing the use of one of her back legs. She was only about 9 years old — far too young for a cat, especially a pampered house cat, to die...
Part of what has surprised me about the loss of China has been how much my sense of grieving has been shaped by feeling guilty. Of course there’s the what-if’s surrounding her final illness: “I waited too long to take her to the vet,” “My inaction made her suffer,” “I waited too long to put her to sleep,” “I put her to sleep too soon”...
My eldest cat, China, is well over 20 years old. She was a rescue kitty — she came to me when I managed the bookstore in Sewanee, and a fraternity boy at the college found her, a stray kitten, and took her to the local vet; the same vet who on the very next day I asked “Do you have any kittens up for adoption?” He brought China out to me, and it was love at first sight. The frat boy, who was a...