I never thought I was a cat person. After long deliberation, I think I am a specific cat person. Not just any cat will do. And, like my human relationships, it takes a long time to deal with endings.
Yesterday marked one year after the loss of my dear Tisha. She was twenty-two years old. That is a magnificent feat for a pedigree Devon Rex. We were told their average lifespan was less than the hearty moggies – ten to fifteen was a good trot. At fifteen, Tisha still looked like a kitten.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Tisha (short for Morticia – as in Addams) , came from a good breeder. Her pedigree papers sported a blood line that included Vlad, Gollum and The Prince of Darkness himself. She was a sneaky scallywag, Queen of all she surveyed. She stood tall, like an Egyptian god when not stealing sausages from the gas griller (and never once got burned).
Our vet said she was obviously a well-loved, healthy geriatric cat. They fawned over her when she had her yearly visit. By twenty, she had three-monthly visits, to help ease her arthritis.
On Easter Monday, 2015 she went blind. She couldn’t walk. It was sudden. Possibly a stroke. The two days before, Tisha had been huggy – always at our side, in our laps. We braced ourselves. On the Tuesday we visited our vet. They cried with us.
I’m still crying.
Photos: (c) 2012 – 2016 Karen Carlisle/ (c) 2015 D Carlisle.
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