We pause to remember the life of our dear kitty, Kelley Shadow Henry Cusey, nicknamed Kitty.
Kitty was a good kitty. She came when we called, provided she was hungry or cold or just felt like it. She gave outsiders an evil glare and occasional hiss that warned them not to try any funny business.
Kitty was a thoughtful kitty. Her insistent scratching on bedroom doors at 3 AM was born only out of her desire to demonstrate her affection for us by sleeping on our faces. She also slept between our feet and graciously allowed us to change position when our limbs fell asleep, expressing her displeasure with only a simple claw to the shin and a reproachful look. She generously scratched up the chair we didn’t particularly like, kindly leaving the couches more gently distressed than scratched. And when she threw up, it was never on our pillows.
Kitty was a patient kitty. She did not protest – much – when PG and Turbo made kitty houses from laundry baskets and blankets, requiring her to lay in hot, dark spaces for hours on end. When she escaped, she did not protest – much – when they apprehended her and forcibly reinserted her into her special home. She was picked up and carried and held upside down and squeezed to within an inch of her life. She did not protest – much – when TS made her do that thing where she made grunting noises that made us laugh. She put up with all of it, not graciously, but at least not murderously.
Kitty was a well-traveled kitty. We put her in her carrier on the first day of our trip across the country to California. She meowed and meowed and carried on. Somewhere in the Shenandoahs, after incessant crying from Kitty, we had had enough. She either needed to make peace with the travel or find a new life in West Virginia. We let her out of the carrier and into the interior of the van. She climbed to the top of a headrest, draped herself over it, and promptly fell asleep. She loved to sit on the dashboard and watch the country fly by. When we traveled back from California to the East Coast, she happily snuggled down among the suitcases. She should have been a trucker’s kitty.
We don’t think Kitty was a smart kitty. She seemed confused by much of life. But then again, so am I. She could never decide if life was better outdoors or indoors, meowing to go out and then meowing to come in just moments later. And out again. She would run and greet us when we came home, her grey tail held straight up with just a small hook to the left at the tip. But when we held the door open, she would stare at it like it held the secrets to the finale of LOST, but not go through. Sure enough, just seconds after giving up and closing the door on her, we’d hear the scratching that was her request for entry.
We don’t know what took Kitty from us, only that we have a small furry hole in our lives. No one jumps on our beds in the middle of the night, scaring us and comforting us at the same time. No one rubs against our legs. Well, except Turbo, but it’s not the same. No one leaps and attacks milk bottle lids, paper bags, or pieces of string.
No one sits in the window and watches us come home. It’s just an empty window.
She was part of us and we miss her.
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