Death of a cat March 1, 2025

  

Puffin’s dead.

She was one of three kittens we brought in at our old house in Jersey City. So standoffish, we could not get her adopted the way we did her overly affection brother Muffin.

A tiger striped short-haired domestic, she remained unaffectionate towards humans right up to the point when we were forced to put her down yesterday.

She liked cats more than humans in particular our eldest cat, Ginger, who she cuddled up to frequently.

She was not particularly close to her sister, Onion, although there were times when she got Onion wrapped up in her plots against us.

They had their own secret language and when we heard them talking together, we had to watch out.

Puffin did not have a happy life.

We managed to get her into a vet as a young kitten for her initial shots, but could not catch her to get her fixed, which became a problem when we brought in Junior, who we found abandoned on the street a block away from our current house. While we got Junior his shots, we had to wait until he was old enough to get him neutered, by which time he had already impregnated Puffin – a total disaster.

She gave birth to five kittens, four of which died in birth, and the fifth a short time later, all of whom we buried in the yard near our pine tree, Alberta.

Puffin was not a good mother. She wanted no part of any of those kittens, living or dead, and only reluctantly allowed us to get her to the vet to help detach umbilical cord from the living kitten. If she mourned its death, she showed no sign.

With the exception of Ginger and sometimes her sister, she did not socialize with other cats, coming out twice a day to feed, but nothing more. She resided most of the time in one of our armed chairs and kept to herself. Only when sleeping next to Ginger did she allow either of us to pet her. Sometimes, she even purred.

Three weeks ago, she had a dramatic loss of weight, suggesting some serious amorality, which told us she was not long for this world.

I made an appointment with the vet, but when I tried to get her in the carrier, she savagely bit my hand, and fled. She continued to come out for food, and remained largely a resident of one of our armed chairs. But two days ago, she did not come out for supper, and yesterday morning, I found her sprawled out on the couch, still breathing, but clearly on the verge of death.

I made another appointment for the vet, determined to get her there regardless of how much she made me bleed. One of our other cats stood guard over her until it was time to leave for the vet.

She was too weak to put up a fight, and let the vet handle her when we finally got her there.

The vet said she had cancer.

I’ll be picking up her ashes next week, at which point, I intend to bury them at the foot of Alberta next to the kittens she previously had no use for, but all had a place in our lives.

They will remain there until we expire, after which we will have no power to determine their fate.

Last night, Ginger prowled the house in search of Puffin, though strangely, her sister did not – although somewhere in the afterworld I’m sure Onion may still hear Puffin spouting their secret language.

Strangely, I’ll miss her.

 

email to Al Sullivan