On Wednesday, October 10, my family bade farewell to Fuzzy, our faithful companion who, in a bizarre twist of fate, died on her seventeenth birthday. We had hoped that she would last long enough to celebrate her birthday one last time, but alas it was not to be. Instead of showering her with gifts and adoration, my parents buried her in our backyard. I've spent the past week preparing myself for my next trip home, but I can't for the life of me accept that she's gone. It's as though I refuse to believe she's passed until I walk into the living room and find her pillow on the loveseat empty.
I must confess I feel a little silly for mourning a pet this deeply, but Fuzz was a prominent figure in my childhood. A birthday present from my now-uncle (then aunt's boyfriend), Fuzzy was my first foray into pet ownership--though truth be told, I wasn't the model caretaker being all of six years old. Rather than clean her litter box and clip her nails, I preferred to dress her up in doll clothes, an activity that Fuzz neither enjoyed nor tolerated for very long.
You see, Fuzz was not one to suffer fools kindly. Unlike Miles, the mild-tempered, bumbling tomcat that prowls around my apartment, Fuzzy was the picture of feline grace and majesty. She was a fastidious groomer well into her old age, letting her appearance slip only when she became too arthritic to clean herself efficiently and effectively. She did not plod heavily around the house as do the younger cats; instead, she moved silently, effortlessly, daintily, with the poise and finesse of a ballerina.
This is not to say she was a stuffy, unaffectionate cat. She was a tenderhearted animal who craved attention from her immediate family, but was wary of strangers. She had a wonderful purr that required a bit of work to elicit. Fuzz did not purr to entertain us as the new cats seem to do, but rather forced us to work for that soft, soothing--and often elusive--sound.
Her elegant carriage notwithstanding, Fuzz adored human food, especially in her old age, and would make an absolute fool of herself begging for morsels of turkey or fish. (For a laugh, ask me about the "tuna dance".) In her middle age, she developed a small waddle in her abdomen, a reminder of her fondness for bacon and ice cream. In her last year or two of life, my once vital, active kitty had begun to waste away, her skin pulled taut over her bones as she was whittled away by ulcerative colitis. It was difficult to pet her, as you could feel every process of her vertebrae, every articulation of her fragile frame. However, aside from her arthritis, she wasn't in any pain, and relished any attention we lavished on her.
One of my last memories of Fuzz-Fuzz (as we often called her) comes from my week-long recovery from wisdom-teeth extraction this past May. I was on a diet of soft foods, primarily ice cream, because what recent college graduate wouldn't love the opportunity to loaf on a couch at home whilst eating Haagen Dazs and leafing through a good book. (Okay, fine, I was watching trashy daytime court shows.) In any case, that week was a bonding experience between my old friend and me. For seven days, we shared coconut gelato, a heating pad, and the chenille afghan, allies fighting a losing battle against afternoon fatigue. (Hers was age-induced, whereas mine was the result of narcotics.) That week was the last time I was home long enough to hear her purr; it was weaker than in years past, but still just as rewarding.
Perhaps my sister is right in thinking Fuzz paid me any mind only because I fed her ice cream, a forbidden treat. However, I prefer to believe that Fuzz and I came to a sort of understanding that week, a mutual respect. I was no longer the little hellion that forced her to don diapers and booties and ride around in a pram. Nor was I merely a warm body to exploit, or a pair of opposable thumbs to open the freezer door. Instead, I was good company, a loving hand unafraid to pet her despite her delicate frame, a doting friend who gently combed the mats out of her fur. I like to think those few days I spent with her were an opportunity to return to her glory days, before the aches and pains of old age had laid her low, before her body turned on her. And at the risk of sounding even more of an anthropomorphizing twit, I can't help but feel she appreciated it.
Farewell, Fuzzilicus, and thanks for all the fish.
I must confess I feel a little silly for mourning a pet this deeply, but Fuzz was a prominent figure in my childhood. A birthday present from my now-uncle (then aunt's boyfriend), Fuzzy was my first foray into pet ownership--though truth be told, I wasn't the model caretaker being all of six years old. Rather than clean her litter box and clip her nails, I preferred to dress her up in doll clothes, an activity that Fuzz neither enjoyed nor tolerated for very long.
You see, Fuzz was not one to suffer fools kindly. Unlike Miles, the mild-tempered, bumbling tomcat that prowls around my apartment, Fuzzy was the picture of feline grace and majesty. She was a fastidious groomer well into her old age, letting her appearance slip only when she became too arthritic to clean herself efficiently and effectively. She did not plod heavily around the house as do the younger cats; instead, she moved silently, effortlessly, daintily, with the poise and finesse of a ballerina.
This is not to say she was a stuffy, unaffectionate cat. She was a tenderhearted animal who craved attention from her immediate family, but was wary of strangers. She had a wonderful purr that required a bit of work to elicit. Fuzz did not purr to entertain us as the new cats seem to do, but rather forced us to work for that soft, soothing--and often elusive--sound.
Her elegant carriage notwithstanding, Fuzz adored human food, especially in her old age, and would make an absolute fool of herself begging for morsels of turkey or fish. (For a laugh, ask me about the "tuna dance".) In her middle age, she developed a small waddle in her abdomen, a reminder of her fondness for bacon and ice cream. In her last year or two of life, my once vital, active kitty had begun to waste away, her skin pulled taut over her bones as she was whittled away by ulcerative colitis. It was difficult to pet her, as you could feel every process of her vertebrae, every articulation of her fragile frame. However, aside from her arthritis, she wasn't in any pain, and relished any attention we lavished on her.
One of my last memories of Fuzz-Fuzz (as we often called her) comes from my week-long recovery from wisdom-teeth extraction this past May. I was on a diet of soft foods, primarily ice cream, because what recent college graduate wouldn't love the opportunity to loaf on a couch at home whilst eating Haagen Dazs and leafing through a good book. (Okay, fine, I was watching trashy daytime court shows.) In any case, that week was a bonding experience between my old friend and me. For seven days, we shared coconut gelato, a heating pad, and the chenille afghan, allies fighting a losing battle against afternoon fatigue. (Hers was age-induced, whereas mine was the result of narcotics.) That week was the last time I was home long enough to hear her purr; it was weaker than in years past, but still just as rewarding.
Perhaps my sister is right in thinking Fuzz paid me any mind only because I fed her ice cream, a forbidden treat. However, I prefer to believe that Fuzz and I came to a sort of understanding that week, a mutual respect. I was no longer the little hellion that forced her to don diapers and booties and ride around in a pram. Nor was I merely a warm body to exploit, or a pair of opposable thumbs to open the freezer door. Instead, I was good company, a loving hand unafraid to pet her despite her delicate frame, a doting friend who gently combed the mats out of her fur. I like to think those few days I spent with her were an opportunity to return to her glory days, before the aches and pains of old age had laid her low, before her body turned on her. And at the risk of sounding even more of an anthropomorphizing twit, I can't help but feel she appreciated it.
Farewell, Fuzzilicus, and thanks for all the fish.
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