Dear Zoulie,
You left us on July 7th, 2014. It has been many months since then. I have put off writing this post for all that time. I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t, but I know it’s time to try. Let me start at the beginning.
The way you came into this world and ended up with me is a sweet story. You had a sort of guardian angel by the name of Debbie. She found your mother, a pregnant stray, near her apartment building. Debbie named the cat Cinnamon and started leaving food out for her.
One night Cinnamon didn’t show up for her feeding, so Debbie went looking for her. Debbie found Cinnamon camped out with her new kittens in a hole she’d made under a bush near the apartment door. Debbie propped open the door, giving Cinnamon access to the basement, hoping she would take her new kittens inside. At first, Cinnamon would go inside, look around for a while, then run back out. She did this several times. Then late one night she made the decision to trust her good fortune, and one at a time, she carried her kittens inside. Of her four kittens, three survived to find good homes (as did Cinnamon, whom Debbie adopted).
You were the last of the three kittens to be adopted. You were a stand-offish little thing. You didn’t seem to be interested in people at all. I wasn’t sure I wanted a kitten. So it might have been a little bit of a miracle that I took you home with me.
Like most kittens, you were a lightning-fast, furry maniac. I still remember the sound of your tiny claws raking across the furniture. Watching your frenetic performance one day, I absent-mindedly quoted one of my favorite lines from the movie Ghostbusters: “Oh, Zoulie, you nut!” That’s how you got your name.
You warmed to me quickly, but not to anyone else. You were a one-person cat. And I was a one-cat person back then, so things were good. We spent so much of our days together, especially after I started working at home. I remember how you used to play with the bubbles in my bubble bath. I used to share my food with you. I even used to take you for the occasional walk outside.
Those were your happiest years. Later you had to share me with Faithful Reader, Mojo, and Peeps. You didn’t adapt easily or well. Things got particularly tough for you after the children were born, because I didn’t have much time for you. I’m sorry that it had to be that way for you. How much happier your life would have been if you could have accepted other people (and change) into your life.
I said that “you left us” in July, but the truth is that I put you to sleep. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. You’d lost so much weight. The vet wasn’t sure what was wrong with you, and she didn’t know if we’d be able to cure you. So I tried to imagine what you’d ask me to do if you could speak. And I knew that you wouldn’t want more blood tests, medicines, or trips to the vet. You hated going to the vet.
So I made the decision that needed to be made. I stayed with you until the end. I will never forget the moment when the light left your eyes.
Mojo and Peeps struggle to get along with each other now that you’re gone, but they have both become more affectionate toward us. I feel sad every time I give them wet food, because we used to have to hold them off so that you could eat. I sometimes forget that you’re gone, and I often say your name. So do we all.
I bought a little memorial statue for you. It’s not winter-proof, so it has to stay in the house during the cold months. We put it near the window, where I know you’d be happy to perch and watch the chipmunks scampering in the yard. Sometimes we give the statue a pat on the head, and we think of you.
Love,
Your Person
