Cindy

When she was six years old, our daughter Meghan wanted a kitty. Specifically, Meghan wanted a girl kitty.

Neither Brenda nor I had ever owned a cat before. I had a dog named Bear when I was young; Brenda lived in city apartments growing up, so she never had a pet at all. Brenda and I had successfully served as catsitters for friends on a couple of isolated occasions, but were otherwise complete novices at feline care and nurture. Nonetheless, Meghan's heart was set, and we saw no reason to deny her wish. In September of 2001, the three of us ventured to the ASPCA to learn what we'd need to do to adopt a kitten. On September 8th, mother and daughter returned to the ASPCA; I met our newest family member when I got home from work that night.

She was the runt of the litter, the only female, a tiny little wisp of black fur that fit neatly in my hand. At the shelter, Meghan was asked what she was going to name her new kitten. "Sarah," she replied, adding that she had a doll named Sarah. When the person at the shelter asked her if that wouldn't be confusing, having a doll and a kitty that shared the same name, Meghan thought for a second and said, "Cindy." Welcome to the family, little Cindy.



She made herself at home by pooping on the carpet in front of our fish tank. But we loved her immediately.

The following Wednesday, September 12th, Cindy and I stayed home watching TV, my mind reeling with horror and sadness as the news coverage of 9/11 made me want to cuddle with our kitty even more. Better times would come soon enough. My heart swells as I remember the sixteen years and four months that tumbled forth thereafter. Mommy, Daddy, Meghan, and Cindy--a happy family.


We joked that Cindy was really Brenda's cat. Brenda took care of Cindy more often than Meghan or I did, and there was a bond between them that nothing could interrupt. As soon as Brenda sat down on the couch, Cindy was there, on Brenda's lap at first, then sprawled over Brenda's shoulder like a feline wrap. Brenda's shoulder was Cindy's second favorite place in the world. (Cindy's first favorite place, of course, was any warm pile of freshly-dried laundry.)

But Cindy loved Meghan and me, too. Aside from the people working at the vet's office, I was the only person in the world who ever clipped Cindy's nails. She resisted when she was little, but got used to it and, frankly, preferred me to the vet anyway. When I watched TV at night, Cindy would plop herself across my shoulder as an acceptable substitute for Mommy. Afternoons, Cindy could hear the sound of school buses outside, and she looked to the door, waiting for Meghan to return. She kept looking, even after Meghan had gone away to college. She often curled up on Meghan's bed to sleep. And she joined Brenda and me on the couch when she heard Meghan's voice on the iPad, Skyping us from school. Cindy loved all of us.

We were the only people Cindy loved, actually. Cindy viewed friends, neighbors, even family members as intruders, and shunned them. No one but the three of us ever understood how loving our kitty could be.

Saying goodbye to her is every bit as difficult as I knew it would be. Time is the enemy. Cindy was healthy for most of her life, and then, suddenly, she wasn't anymore. She deteriorated swiftly. We knew the end was near, and scheduled a final visit to the vet. She was unable to sustain herself that long. On Saturday night, surrounded by the three people she loved, the three people who loved her, Cindy took her last breath.

Someday--someday soon--the immediacy of this pain will ebb. We will ache, and we will mourn, but we will remember with even greater clarity the joy that Cindy brought into our lives. Our daughter wanted a kitty. We all got a treasure that will live in our hearts for all of our days. God bless you, Cindy.