One day, in the fall of 1993, I was killing time at one of the local malls. I don’t remember whether I had a real purpose in being there. It doesn’t really matter.
At that point, there was a pet store at one end of the mall, next to the bookstore. I loved that pet store; it wasn’t huge, but it was a pretty decent size, and I could spend an hour just wandering around, looking at the different animals. Never with the intention of buying, really, just looking.
There were two enclosures at the front of the store, rabbits and guinea pigs on one side, and kittens on the other. The sides of the enclosures weren’t tall, two and a half feet, maybe. If the animals were feeling particularly friendly and decided to approach, you could reach in and pet them. And, yeah: today, that would bother me on any number of levels. But this story takes place fifteen years ago. I loved it.
On this particular day in 1993, most of the kittens were asleep, curled up in the various boxes and cubby holes they’d been given. One, maybe two were awake, and bored, trying to wake some of the others up to play. I watched for a moment, and one of the kittens—a tiny little calico—jumped up onto one of the platforms of the cat tree, roughly eye-level with me. She looked at me, and meowed. Loudly.
I reached in, not touching, just letting her get used to the idea. She sniffed at my fingers for a moment, and then licked them.
And meowed again.
I was in love.
I was also thirteen years old, and kind of obnoxious. I spent the next hour wandering around the mall with my dad, listing off potential names for the kitten. Not that I actually expected to use any of them; we’d been talking about getting a cat, eventually, but we hadn’t actually made any firm plans. I was just smitten.
Less than two hours after first seeing her in the store, I was sitting in the car with that kitten—Tasha—on my lap, waiting while my father went back into the mall to buy all the little necessities of owning a cat. (Like a litter box. And food.)
Best impulse purchase I’ve ever made.
In the fifteen years since, I’ve slept almost every night with that cat curled up next to me. If I’ve been reading or watching television, she’s been on my lap. I’ve stumbled to the window before my first cup of coffee in the morning, because Tasha wanted to look out at the birds, but wouldn’t actually make the jump to the windowsill unless I was there too. I’ve got a small, round scar on the back of my left hand that’s entirely her fault. A stranger once told me I should be a writer, after overhearing me tell a friend the story of how Tasha broke my toe.
I lost her to kidney failure on June 2.
It wasn’t completely unexpected; the vet estimated she had three to five years, a little more than three years ago. But less than a month before it happened, you wouldn’t have known she was in less than perfect health.
I’m dealing. Not particularly well perhaps, but it’s getting better. I miss her terribly—I still expect to see her waiting for me when I come home, and I still expect her to meow at me every time I get up from my desk. I still glance toward her favourite spots every time I pass, checking to see if she’s there and aching when I don’t see her. Everything’s just slightly different—so many little routines that have made up my day for the past fifteen years are just… gone, with nothing to replace them. I’m having a hard time getting used to it.
But I’m getting there. Slowly. I’m easing back into writing (again), after nearly a month when I couldn’t really see the point. I’m getting ready to do a photo shoot. I’m slowly figuring out this new version of things.
I was incredibly, incredibly lucky to have Tasha in my life for as long as I did.
It just wasn’t long enough.
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