Glade

"The memory is eternal for as long as the soul shall last."

People, by and large, do not understand cats. A common misconception is that cats only show affection when they want something; to own a cat is to be owned by the cat. To the cat uninclined, the fact that cats appear to resist training is a failing on the part of the whole species, but like humans, cats are social animals. To see humanity through the eyes of a cat is to see itself reflected. To a cat, you are another cat. Equals. Family. Cats no more show affection when they need something as humans do. To own a cat is to love and be loved. Every cat is a unique being in the way it views life.

July 28th, 2023

It has been just under one week since the prognosis was given to us. She is not in pain, but she's moving slower than I've ever seen her move before. She's still happy to see me when I get home, she still meows and chirps, and sometimes her tail still shakes with joy. Her breathing is getting heavier and she has to stop to catch her breath more often. She wants to play with the other cats, but avoids them most of the day. As I sit here, I study every detail of her face. My memory feels like swiss cheese. It isn't fair. How many of the past several years did I already forget? It feels like I took her for granted, but I know that she was happy and enjoyed all of it. I have more pictures of her than I know what to do with, but no matter how many pictures I have, they can never compare to the real thing. They can't capture the way she moved, the little bouncy trot she did when she was excited; the way she stretched; the jingling of her collar; the way her eyes squinted when she meowed. As I study her eyelashes, I know that I will forget.

July 29th, 2023

I spent the day at work, and I only thought about Glade. When I was alone, my mind tried to envision the coming days, and what it would be like to be present. I know that I won't stay resolute when it happens, and when my mind wanders, I have to catch myself and find something else to focus on.

We let her walk around the property for a little while as we watched her. She has to stop to catch her breath several times, and we sit in the grass next to her while she coughs. In her twilight years, she has been an indoor cat, but she used to be a roamer when she was a young cat, before I had agency over my belongings or knew better. It felt right to let her sniff the wild grass again. When I pick her up, she smells like sunshine. She always has.

July 30th, 2023

I took the day off work to spend it here. The days leading up to it drag by but they also go too fast. We let her go outside again and we sat in the sunlight together, and we video called my sibling to let them see her one more time. They live at college now. I don't like how time flies. Sometimes I wonder if I'll remember calling to her and seeing her come running, chirping and tail straight up. Seeing her roll in the dirt, and her hoping I'll follow her, but not too closely. How before I moved she used to sit on the stool next to my desk and stare at me, paws tucked neatly under her. When my partner held her, she would still look at me instead. She used to climb up the ladder on my bunk bed. She liked to burrow under blankets and scratch my office chair. She liked to stare at her reflection in mirrors. Her name was Glade but we called her Baby Cat.

I still remember the day I got her. My sibling and I were allowed to pick out our own kitten, and we had been to shelters to decide. On the road, we saw a group of people holding up a "free kittens" sign, and one orange kitten was the only cat left, her brother having already been adopted. I was twelve when I got her. My mom had been advising me against picking a cat that was feisty, but that was exactly what I liked about her. She was more than that. She was a very happy kitty her whole life, easy to please, especially as she got older—at least, for me. She loved to purr. She purred the hardest when I pet her.

July 31th, 2023

At 8:50am, the vet's office calls to confirm. Say what you will about Death, he does make house calls. Glade lays sweetly above my head and we just look at each other. She has lived thirteen long, happy years, but it doesn't feel like long enough.

When the doctor arrives, I take her collar off and let her fall asleep in my arms. She's just as feisty as ever when they sedate her. Her fur is as soft as the day I got her. She's the softest cat I've ever pet. Silky and plush like minky. When I was in seventh grade, I would tell my friends all about it. I hold her in my arms asleep. She's limp and comfortable. I don't want this to be my decision. I want someone to decide how and when it happens for me, I want to wake up another day in a post-Glade world all alone in despair because it was an inevitability that I had no agency to change. The vet lets me have the time, but the time can't be forever, and everyone is waiting for me to give the word. My mind screams out to someone, anyone, to just take her from me. Someone please, please take this decision away from me. How am I meant to bear it? It's as much on me to end our time as it was to begin it, and the word is inaudible on my lips. I act outside of myself and she is in the doctor's arms, then on the blanket I've laid out on the floor. The other cats don't know it yet, but the color fades away from her lips and ears. She goes to sleep in the kitchen, where she used to eat tuna out of a glass chalice. Glade lays sweetly for the very last time.

"Hello from the future. It wasn't a waste of time."