My wife and I lost one of our two cats, Mizzy, a domestic short-hair calico, suddenly, a week ago today. There were no signs of illness, five minutes earlier she was drinking her water downstairs and then suddenly, we found her dying on our bedroom floor. Admittedly, she was fifteen years old, but it was traumatic for me to hold her as she finally left all the same. We found her as a stray, in the rain one December and my wife named her Mizzy, short for Miserable, or Les Miserables, which she was reading at the time. I never really considered giving her a last name, but it hit me pretty hard when the crematorium returned her name with my last name (Valentine). Miserable Valentine. Strangely, as we said our goodbyes on the viewing table, she looked anything but miserable.
We're happy that we got her for the majority of her life. When we found her, it was obvious she'd been abused: she flinched at every movement. In recent years, however, you could scream and flail at her and she just kind of looked at you like "who are you kidding? I know you have chicken! Gimme!" Fearless. She knew we weren't about to hurt her. It led to a lot of misbehaving on her part, but that was ok.
As much as we miss Mizzy ourselves, we've been worried about the other one she left behind. We got Silver, a purebred runt persian months before Mizzy appeared, but they were sisters. They played and fought, but they also took care of each other. At one point a large male cat came into our yard and challenged Mizzy and Silver, not knowing any better, chased the male off. A few days later Silver snuck out, and Mizzy, knowing that Silver isn't allowed outside, coralled her back inside.
We expected to get Mizzy's ashes back today, but the crematorium is the most popular one in the area, and I was disappointed when I called and learned they hadn't gotten to her yet. About an hour later, my cell phone rang, and hung up before I could answer, and thirty seconds after the doorbell rang and I answered it immediately but there was no one there. And then later a picture I'd been worrying about going missing suddenly turned up, in a place it couldn't possibly have been put by either of us (we recently changed rooms from downstairs to upstairs, and that picture was not there when we moved).
I'm ranting, and I apologize. I've found it comforting to talk about her. We had her nine years, and I've never had a companion that long before. It's taking a lot of adjustment.
