Member-only story
Death Comes in Three’s … part 3
… heartbreak
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My cat died.
She had to be put down; I had to make the decision, and it was heartbreaking.
I inherited Sheba from my grandmother when she became too sick to care for the cat herself. Grandma had dementia, and she passed away about a year later.
Sheba was the most lovable cat I have ever known. She would crawl int my lap, curl into a tiny ball and turn her motor on. She sat with me while I read, trying to sprawl across the pages of the book. She tiptoed about my desk while I worked, and she played with the yarn while I was crocheting. Our bond grew deep over the years, but she was never my cat — she was always Grandma’s cat and that’s why she meant so much to me.
Sheba had never been a very big cat, but a couple of years ago I noticed she was losing weight. Overactive thyroid. So I gave her medicine every day and babied her even more. She got worse instead of better. Congestion, sneezing, pneumonia. The vet gave Sheba shots of antibiotics. I bought special food for her. She lost her playfulness. She stopped eating. She stopped drinking. I sat with Sheba in my lap watching her struggle to breathe, and I cried realizing it was time.
Now I have a little box on my bedside table with her name on top and her ashes inside. I hold it in my lap sometimes while I am reading. My heart hurts for my grandma’s cat, my cat.
Sometimes I open the box, pick up the bag of ashes and hold it in my hands. I wonder, do other people do this? Is this part of grieving or am I just a weirdo? I remember opening my uncle’s urn and peeking at his ashes inside, wanting a better look. His were the first I had ever seen.
I miss my grandmother’s cat. Even more, I miss Grandma.