My cat Scotch died today.
I held her in my arms as she was being euthanized. I sobbed and sobbed.
Scotch was a beautiful cat. She was black and white - or commonly known as a "tuxedo cat."
She was born in my daughter's closet, almost exactly six years ago - in March 2004. She was twins with another cat. My daughter named one Butter, the other Scotch. Months later, we gave her siblings away to other homes, although her brother Reggie lived with us until he ran away a few years later.
Scotch once got out of the house when she was a kitten. A furious snowstorm pounded our town that night. She went missing for two days, but I later found her in the elementary school parking lot down the street.
I sighed with relief when she and I walked through the front door that night. My daughter Madeline and son Aidan were thrilled to be reunited with her.
Scotch's mother, Bright Eyes, had a mean temperament, but we loved her. She was hit by a car in early 2005. I still miss her.
Scotch and I were always very close. She would sit on my lap for long periods of time. She often slept on my bed, sometimes right smack on top of me. As a sign of affection, she liked to gnaw lovingly on my finger while she purred. I'd say, "Bite my finger, Scotchie..." And she'd happily oblige.
Back in 2007, Scotch got quite sick with symptoms similar to those that she developed in recent weeks. The first time she came down with this liver and kidney problem, I fed her moist cat food mixed with water through a tube in her throat. She impressed me with her courage and soon rallied to a recovery.
I have learned so much from Scotch over the years. We've spent so much time together. She was always one of my closest friends.
I miss her terribly already. I'd give anything to have her sitting in my lap purring one more time.
Earlier today, I read about a man named Larry Kruger in Pensacola, Florida, whose house always gave off a terrible stench in the summer. Police raided the home the other day and 161 cats - some dead, some living (but barely) - in his home. Several were packed into the freezer. The ones still alive were in such bad shape that they had to be euthanized.
Frankly, I'd like to find Larry Kruger and beat the living daylights out of him. No cat deserves to live such a horrible life.
Scotch, I know, would agree with me. She had a good life. It was too short, though. She was only six - the equivalent of 40 human years. It made me happy to hold her in my arms as she was being put down, even though I wept harder than I've ever wept before. I was there for her. I said goodbye to my friend and kissed her on the head.
And as I walk the halls, my house seems a little emptier. Our place is home to another cat, Gibson, who's currently looking around corners to see if he can see his best friend.
Scotch may be gone, but she will never - ever - be forgotten. From here on out, this Blog is dedicated to my baby.