This is a list of my pets that have come and gone. All were loved and cared for as best I could. I hope to update this as little as possible.
I was handed a tiny black kitten on Sept. 11, 2009 and knew I should name him for someone the world had lost that awful day eight years before. I settled on Karl M. Flickinger who’d worked at The World Trade Center.
Flick was a tiny kitten who grew to be a large and robust cat, the biggest in the house. He loved chasing spots of light, laser beams, and would come running when he heard the hatch of the DVD player opening, which he loved to stalk.
In the end he was betrayed by his overworked heart. His energy level faded so slowly that when his plight was finally apparent it was too late. His heart was relieved of its burden on March 2, 2016. Flick was a little over 6 years old.
She was born in my front closet in April of 2000. I named her Ivy because of another calico cat we’d had when I was younger also named after a climbing plant; in this case Wisteria.
Ivy had been very scared of new people, but after a summer long driving trip, where I left the house and cats in the care of a sitter, Ivy became MUCH friendlier toward new faces. She was eager for attention but only in areas of the house where she felt safe. I came to call these her “socialization stations.”
Ivy inexplicably started to lose weight, and after that an interest in eating. She died in my arms, at the vet, and the last thing she saw was the love in my eyes. She was 13 years old.
Kali found me at a gas station on my way to work, and was so delightfully friendly I couldn’t leave her there. I put up posters but never had a response. Oh well, I was too taken with her by that point anyway.
Due to my agreeing to care for my brother’s cat, and being a tad ignorant of when cats can start breeding, Kali (who I named after the Hindu goddess), soon became Mama Cat (which is what I called her most of the time.) She had four perfect little kittens: Coffey, Ivy, Morpheus, and Percheron.
In the middle of 2011 I found a large lump on her neck. It was biopsied and found to be cancerous. Its placement near key nerves and blood vessels meant it was inoperable. I kept her as long as I could, but when the murderous mass broke through her skin I knew it was time. She was 12 years old.
She was born in my front closet, the smallest of an underfed litter, a fact I didn’t realized until it was too late.
Her fur had the black of her mother and the fluffiness of her father.
She breathed her last in my lap, at home on the couch.