End of an Era...

 Years ago, sometime around 2000, a group of fans of the tv show "Remington Steele" got together online to chat about the show. We called ourselves "SteeleWatchers", and over time had several designated chatrooms set up to use. 

Over time, the number of fans dwindled until it was just myself and one other. We were unlikely friends, me from and living in E. Texas, her from the midwest, living in Wisconsin/Illinois. We agreed not to discuss politics, since we tended to be at opposite ends of that spectrum, and it's worked perfectly. 

 Even without the others, we still met on Wednesday evenings at 9 pm, usually to just catch on what was going on in our lives. Last year, I asked us to move the chat to Tuesdays, since it was a better night for me. She agreed, but slowly seemed to not show up, sometimes with an explanation, sometimes without. A few months ago, so had a bad fall, and I'm convinced that it affected her more than she wanted to admit, because even though I was sending her a reminder on Tuesday afternoon, she either didn't see the email or saw it and then forgot that it was chat night, which left me waiting all alone in the chatroom. 

 I wish I knew what the problem is. Is it her health? She said it wasn't. So that leaves me to think that it's a political thing - that she simply can't handle my politics even though we never discussed them. 

 So I've sent her a email that she needs to let me know when/if she wants to chat and I'll try to be there to meet her.

 Pray for my friend. And for me.

 

Goodbyes

 

It's been a little over a week since we had to say goodbye to Kiki.

We found her (or rather, Frank found her) when we were at my cousin's house for Thanksgiving back in 2010. We'd been without a cat for awhile, and our landlord at the time wasn't big on inside pets. 

Frank came into the house with a grin on his face, and I knew he was up to something, then I noticed a suspicious bulge in his jacket. It was moving. So I asked what he had in there. He opened the jacket and showed me a little yellow and white kitten, probably around 8 to 10 weeks old, and said that we were taking her with us. 

I said no, that we didn't need another cat, that we didn't have food or a litter box at the house. I kept saying no until it was time to leave. 

Guess what I did that evening? I went to Walmart and bought cat food and a litter box. 

She was Frank's cat, always loving on him, sleeping on his side of the bed. As she grew, her fur got longer, and she had little tufts on her feet. I think she was part Maine Coon, and she was so cute, because when she ate wet food or drank water, she would use her paw like a raccoon, dipping it into the food or water, licking it off, then flinging the residue everywhere. 

 Fun.

After Frank passed, she adopted me, but I always felt like she was just tolerating me. We had routines that she learned early. She liked Temptations treats, and every night just before I went to bed, I'd give her a few. No matter where she was in the house, when she heard me getting them out, she would join me to get her treats. 

I began taking a few extra treats into my bedroom, and after reading my Bible lesson, I would brush her, then give her the extra treats. It got to where she would stand there, meowing at me, wanting me to hurry up with my prayers so she could get those treats.

After Frank passed, I rescued another kitten, this one from under our porch. Jaggy had been abandoned by his mother, and I wasn't going to bring him inside - Kiki was clearly not happy with him being on the porch, much less inside. But I brought him in, and she hissed and snarled and growled. She wasn't happy, and refused to snuggle with the interloper. 

After awhile, they would wrestle, with Kiki always being the one to end it. She learned to tolerate him, but Jaggy would sit there, staring and watching her, ready to start again. 

Frank had taken her to the vet to be spayed years ago, and because of that experience, she hated enclosed spaces. Getting her into a carrier was traumatic for her, and for me. I managed to do it twice, and I have the scars to prove it.

So when she started going downhill a couple of weeks ago, I was frantic. I didn't want to maybe hurt her worse by forcing her into the carrier. She was eating, but spending 99% of the day on my bed. She was incontinent, urinating a lot. So I put pads on the bed for her to sleep on, covering them with some old towels that I kept for the cats to lay on. 

Finally, she stopped eating, and was barely drinking water. I knew it was time, but I couldn't afford the huge bill that mobile vets wanted to put her to sleep here. My son came down to help. I was really worried about getting her into the carrier, but I wrapped the towel she was laying on around her, and got her in with no problem. 

I was with her while the sedation was working, and I hope, even with her cataracts, the last thing she saw and heard was my telling her that I loved her and would miss her. My son went with her for the final shot - I simply couldn't do it. 

Ever since Frank's death, watching someone or something die is just beyond me. 

I know it was for the best - Kiki was suffering. But I've never been a fan of euthanasia. There's a slippery slope there that somehow terrifies me. I kept praying that God would take her in her sleep so that I wouldn't have to take her someplace and basically feel like I killed her or just stood there while someone else did it. 

 

Goodbye, Kiki girl. I do miss you. It was a good 15 years.