(Warning: This post discusses pet loss; specifically, the loss of a cat.)

This is the story of a little gray cat.

This is the story of a girl who always wanted a cat.

The moment I set out on my own, adult job lined up, I knew I’d get that cat. I found a rental that allowed pets, got settled in with the new job for a few months (I’d make enough money to buy a real bed first), and headed to the Cumberland County Animal Shelter to pick out my new friend.

Of course, there were lots of new potential friends: two kittens (an orange tabby and a Siamese), a 5-year-old sweet black kitty, and many in between. I spent thirty minutes hanging out with the cats, because being surrounded by cats. 

One skinny gray cat with bright yellow eyes kept sniffing at the door of her cage and meowing each time I came near, more so than the others. Her card said her name was Kiwi, and listed her disposition as “sweet.” As I walked around the enclosure, I was drawn to her each time I passed, more so than the others. 

This was my cat.

After all the necessary spaying and paperwork, I took her home one afternoon after a long teaching day, both excited and nervous about having my first Big Pet. I dropped the Kiwi and renamed her Scheherezade (Shari for short), since I was reading Arabian Nights at the time and because she was such a vocal cat.

The card at the shelter should’ve read “skittish” and “irritable.” She peed all over every apartment she inhabited (yay, no pet deposits back!), jumped at every bark, beep, and sudden movement, and bit or scratched after one too many scritches.

The card should’ve read “sneaky.” She jumped on counters and stole biscuits, pound cake, cheese, tuna, and anything else within cat-reach that had fat or animal protein in it. I woke up more than once to find her covered in grease after feasting on oil cooling in a pan on the stove after frying. She was also an excellent hider: dark gray fur meant if she wanted to stay hidden, say, in the recesses of a couch, or behind the pipes in the basement, because she didn’t want to be stuffed in a bag to drive home, well, she stayed hidden.

The card should’ve read “does not play well with others.” More than once, bringing another animal into or close to my home resulted in guttural cat-growls, puffed angry fur, hissing, and on one occasion, a fight that ended with bloody ears on one side and a busted cat lip on the other. (She won, soundly.) It only took a few months to know that her home had room for only one cat.

However, the card was right: she was a lap cat, no matter what was already in my lap at the time. (Laptop? Book? Phone? Nothing? Cat.) She meowed almost every night to get into the bedroom, mostly to no avail, and peed outside the door to show her displeasure. If I caved and let her in, I regretted it quickly: she usually chose my pillow, right on my face, as her preferred sleep spot. But we took daily naps together, her furry figure curled up on the blanket on my lap while I read myself to sleep.

I lived alone for nearly a decade, with only Shari for company. She stayed with me through three moves, five living spaces (six if you count longer stays and vacations with my parents), and two cars (one with, and one without, air conditioning). She knew when to jump in my lap as I grieved over jobs, relationships, and loss.

When I did find my human companion, she took to Boyfriend-turned-Fiance-turn-Husband quickly, sleeping on stray sweatshirts he left around the house and stretching out on his back while he napped. She manipulated him into giving her food and pets just as well, and took him in as her stepcatdad with ease.

And her Toddler human? Well, she took that a little harder: baby’s newborn cries and smells meant Shari groomed herself nearly bald, and she hid away until the baby-beast slept. But as baby grew, Shari calmed down, grew her fur back, and even tolerated progressively nicer petting from a little human, save a few warning scratches in response to tail-pulling.

She loved Fabulous Sun Squares, being a pincushion, and meowing more loudly for food than any other cat I’ve ever known at least three times a day. While she didn’t always want to be petted or cuddled, she always wanted to be in the company of humans, hanging out on the backs of couches or in the laps of those who didn’t ask.

I always knew that the day she stopped eating and started hiding would be the day she’d start leaving us.

I noticed a couple of months ago that she was leaving more and more food in her bowl. I thought it was the ant infestation we’d had over the summer, so I cleaned meticulously and took care of the bugs. But still, she left most of her food behind, and spent more time sleeping on the couch and bed than chasing bugs and climbing into laps. I knew she was getting old (I’d had her for nearly thirteen years, and she was older than that), so I chalked it up to old age and “getting tired.”

But, as I predicted, I knew it was the beginning of the end. Within a couple of months, her health declined quickly. She stopped eating, and hid herself more and more. The vet gave a somber diagnosis that gave us a couple of weeks to prepare ourselves for the end.

As I write this, sitting on my couch, I leave a cat-sized space between me and a stack of pillows. While I know that we said goodbye to my friend earlier this week, that I stroked her head while she fell asleep for the last time, I can’t stop myself from looking around the room, waiting for her to jump up and settle her furry body next to mine. I feel her pawing at me with claws barely extended, telling me to get off the danged computer and stroke her head instead.

Love you, Shari. Sleep peacefully.