“I can’t believe I’m doing this again,” I say to Karen, the office manager at my vet’s office. I can hear the weariness in my voice, and it worries me. She must hear it, too. It’s not the check I’m signing that gives me pause; it’s the responsibility.
“She’s so precious,” she says. “Look at her coat; she’s got this chinchilla thing going on. If you don’t want to keep her, I’ll take her.”
“Really?” I ask. I’m so grateful that I’ve been given an out, but I wonder at how many cats Karen must have. How often does she make these offers?
My last fur child died 18 months ago, and I’d vowed not to get another cat or dog for some time. I don’t want an anchor. We have big trips to take.
I think of the last 7 months of my last cat’s life. Charlie was a longshoreman of a feline who sauntered onto my porch the winter of 2009. Millie, my sweet smooth collie, was sick and wouldn’t last long. I figured Charlie had been sent to help me through the latest loss. So, when he laid claim to me, my husband, and our house, we politely acquiesced. He was a grand 17-pound cat, patrolling our house, attacking dogs who got too nosey, cornering the occasional raccoon who had the temerity to enter his territory. He ruled us and all who came into our home like the benevolent monarch that he was. But those last 7 months were tough. He had renal failure and we had to give him subcutaneous injections of saline. I did not want to go through that whole cycle of life again: Buddy, Elsie, Millie, Macie, Charlie--a whole parade of animals whose lives I've shared. And in some cases whose lives I helped to end.
But then. As I’m driving down East Avenue, minding my own damn business, I saw a small streak of black run across the street in front of me. It disappeared into the shrubbery of a narrow median. Even though I was going to be late for an appointment, I made a U-turn, ran across the street, and plucked the 1.5-pound kitty from the shrub where she’d burrowed and attached herself like a silky limpet.
She’d made a mad dash from an apartment complex’s parking lot, and I figured she was either a feral or had been dumped by someone. No missing black kitties appeared on “Next Door.”
So, of course, there was nothing to do but take her to the vet.
You know the rest of this story.