Yesterday, my parents made the difficult decision to put down Kittie two weeks shy of her 19th birthday. The past few months weren’t too kind to my baby girl, and her time had finally come. I am beyond devastated and seriously spent most of yesterday crying. I’m eternally grateful to my parents who quickly acted when her condition noticeably worsened, so she wouldn’t suffer. And a special thanks to my dad who had to endure taking her to the vet alone.
Kittie had nine lives and a few to spare. She was all mine, the runt of her litter of barn cats born on my mom’s best friend’s farm way back in 1995. Leslie and I were so excited to get cats. I had a thousand names picked out, but I couldn’t decide on one so Kittie stuck. I remember when we took her and her sister Blackie (Leslie’s cat) home. She pooped in the car, and it looked like relish. We stayed up all night to litter train them. On their first vet visit, the doctor pulled my dad aside and told him Kittie had a severe virus and probably wouldn’t make it. Did she ever beat those odds. This cat honestly was on death’s doorstep at least three separate times. Each time, she bounced back better than ever.
She was invincible to everything but time. She loved potato chips, tuna, anything dairy, and Krispy Kreme. She was a lazy bum but always woke up for breakfast at 5 am. She endlessly peed on the carpet, but her purring could almost make you forget about it. Once she got stuck so high up in the tree in our backyard, we had to call the fire department.
Kittie has been in my life for almost two decades, and I can’t imagine going to my parents’ house and not seeing her there. My biggest regret is not being there with her. I’ll love you always, Kittie, and I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to say goodbye one last time. Thank you for bringing joy and happiness to our family for those 18 years and 50 weeks.
