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Flotsam, 1992 - 2009 RIP
Apr. 8th, 2009 01:16 pmCross-posted from a Facebook note
She was almost abandoned with her brother on the street in New Brunswick at the tender age of three months old.
She was rescued by friends who named her and her brother (Jetsam, of course), and invited us to dinner.
She had enough feline dignity for two cats. She did not chase her tail (except while sitting on the side of the bathtub). She did not chase a silly flashlight beam (although she would jump up the bedroom wall for hours chasing car lights moving across the wall - in the middle of the night, of course). She did not come when called (unless you had something she wanted).
She disdained human food - unless she could steal a lick from a dish left within reach. When caught, she pretended to know nothing about that dish she was licking clean. Also, cream or half-n-half was acceptable as an offering of adoration.
She was hedonism personified. If there was a decadently warm, cozy place to be, she knew where it was and it was hers. On the back of the couch under the table lamp, in a sunbeam, or snugly under the bedcovers were special favorite places.
She loved snuggles and cuddles and petting - on her terms. She grumbled in complaint if you looked like you were even thinking about petting her without permission - and then purred like an outboard motor once you did.
She loved to lie on my pillow (particularly if she could lie on my hair and prevent me from turning over), or curl up right next to it. Her fur was the first thing I saw in the morning many, many times.
She had an unerring radar for an opportune moment to pad up the bed and demand the prime spot between the humans (the best place to get the most petting). Even better - burrowed under the covers between the humans.
She had the softest, silkiest fur I've ever seen on a cat.
She was the best little nurse cat ever, padding up on the bed and carefully snuggling down tight up against your side, if you were home sick. She was sure if she just purred at you enough, you'd feel better - and then perhaps you would get up and feed her.
She was scrupulously, obsessively clean. She was so fastidious she actually tried to use the litterbox without getting her toes in the litter. She managed to get three paws up on the sides, and stood on tippy-toe on the fourth paw. She tipped the litterbox over on herself once, trying to manage all four feet.
She only ever bit anyone on purpose once - and that was because she knew my husband was fetching her out to put her in the carrier and take her to boarding. Don't ask how she knew - but she did, every time. Once she delayed us almost an entire day going on vacation, and although she eventually came out, we never figured out where she'd been hiding.
She almost died of liver failure thirteen months ago, and fought her way back to being her old feisty self - at least for a while. We got her a set of pet steps, since she was never a great jumper anyway and her illness left her too weak to jump onto the bed. A few weeks later, we discovered that she'd recovered enough to jump up - but she was careful to do this only when no one was watching. When she could be seen - she used the steps.
About two months ago, she was diagnosed with kidney failure. It had been creeping up on her for years, very slowly; we hoped it would continue to progress slowly.
Last week, she was clearly sick, and her bloodwork showed that her kidney failure was accelerating. She was admitted for diuresis, in hopes of buying her some more quality time.
On Monday night, she came home for the last time. She was too weak to walk at all; she couldn't eat; she couldn't swallow her pills. She soiled herself because she was too weak to get to the litterbox. We knew it was time - far too soon, but anytime would have been too soon.
Now she has gone to the Long Home, where the mice are plump and the birds are easy to catch, and there are enough cozy places in sunbeams for a cat to choose a different one for every hour of the day.
Rest in peace, little princess. You will be missed.
She was almost abandoned with her brother on the street in New Brunswick at the tender age of three months old.
She was rescued by friends who named her and her brother (Jetsam, of course), and invited us to dinner.
She had enough feline dignity for two cats. She did not chase her tail (except while sitting on the side of the bathtub). She did not chase a silly flashlight beam (although she would jump up the bedroom wall for hours chasing car lights moving across the wall - in the middle of the night, of course). She did not come when called (unless you had something she wanted).
She disdained human food - unless she could steal a lick from a dish left within reach. When caught, she pretended to know nothing about that dish she was licking clean. Also, cream or half-n-half was acceptable as an offering of adoration.
She was hedonism personified. If there was a decadently warm, cozy place to be, she knew where it was and it was hers. On the back of the couch under the table lamp, in a sunbeam, or snugly under the bedcovers were special favorite places.
She loved snuggles and cuddles and petting - on her terms. She grumbled in complaint if you looked like you were even thinking about petting her without permission - and then purred like an outboard motor once you did.
She loved to lie on my pillow (particularly if she could lie on my hair and prevent me from turning over), or curl up right next to it. Her fur was the first thing I saw in the morning many, many times.
She had an unerring radar for an opportune moment to pad up the bed and demand the prime spot between the humans (the best place to get the most petting). Even better - burrowed under the covers between the humans.
She had the softest, silkiest fur I've ever seen on a cat.
She was the best little nurse cat ever, padding up on the bed and carefully snuggling down tight up against your side, if you were home sick. She was sure if she just purred at you enough, you'd feel better - and then perhaps you would get up and feed her.
She was scrupulously, obsessively clean. She was so fastidious she actually tried to use the litterbox without getting her toes in the litter. She managed to get three paws up on the sides, and stood on tippy-toe on the fourth paw. She tipped the litterbox over on herself once, trying to manage all four feet.
She only ever bit anyone on purpose once - and that was because she knew my husband was fetching her out to put her in the carrier and take her to boarding. Don't ask how she knew - but she did, every time. Once she delayed us almost an entire day going on vacation, and although she eventually came out, we never figured out where she'd been hiding.
She almost died of liver failure thirteen months ago, and fought her way back to being her old feisty self - at least for a while. We got her a set of pet steps, since she was never a great jumper anyway and her illness left her too weak to jump onto the bed. A few weeks later, we discovered that she'd recovered enough to jump up - but she was careful to do this only when no one was watching. When she could be seen - she used the steps.
About two months ago, she was diagnosed with kidney failure. It had been creeping up on her for years, very slowly; we hoped it would continue to progress slowly.
Last week, she was clearly sick, and her bloodwork showed that her kidney failure was accelerating. She was admitted for diuresis, in hopes of buying her some more quality time.
On Monday night, she came home for the last time. She was too weak to walk at all; she couldn't eat; she couldn't swallow her pills. She soiled herself because she was too weak to get to the litterbox. We knew it was time - far too soon, but anytime would have been too soon.
Now she has gone to the Long Home, where the mice are plump and the birds are easy to catch, and there are enough cozy places in sunbeams for a cat to choose a different one for every hour of the day.
Rest in peace, little princess. You will be missed.
