Miss Velvet was supposed to be my daughter’s cat, a graduation present acquired (along with a mustachioed tuxedo littermate dubbed Henri) from a friend of Maura’s sister-in-law.
She was stunningly adorable orange, black, and white calico kitten full of purrs and absurd antics, and I vowed I would not get attached to her because I didn’t want the heartbreak when the day came that my child left the nest and took her pets with her. It was not an easy task, because Miss Velvet excelled at love-bombing, appearing on my lap out of nowhere and purring loudly as she crawled up the front of my shirt to bonk my chin with her tiny skull.
And then shit happened.
When the awkwardness of early kittenhood didn’t subside for her as it did for her brother, we had her checked out and learned she had a feline form of Lou Gehrig’s disease which would rob her of her mobility and eventually kill her in a year or so.
We considered out options, but decided that as long as Miss Velvet continued to be Miss Velvet — a loving, high spirited creature who wasn’t suffering obvious pain and whose condition could be mitigated by our care — to let her make the best of her abbreviated lifespan.
Though that regiment started as a group effort, things took another turn six months ago when my wife had to undergo surgery with a prolonged recovery time which limited her activity. Up until then, we’d park Miss Velvet on a mat between us on our bed while we slept, but I decided that Maura needed some extra space and freedom from Velvet’s cries for attention during the wee hours.
So the stricken kitten and I decamped to the living room for the duration, where the plan was that I’d sleep on the sofa and she’d sleep on a pet bed on the floor beside me. I soon (as in “five minutes into the first night”) realized it was easier to park Velvet on my chest and secure her with a blanket because she’d sleep the entire night through with a look of pure contentment of her face.
Even after Maura recovered and I returned to the real bed, the arrangement persisted because Miss Velvet had become “Andrew’s cat.” I looked after her needs, kept her near me (often tucked into my flannel shirt-jack), and held conversations with her. Even as her mobility decreased, she still found ways to express herself via nips, cries, and (the my favorite) eye-smiles.
And that’s how things were up until a couple of days ago, when Miss Velvet entered the final phase of her affliction. It was sudden and she went peacefully and I was with her when it happened, which is how I’d hoped things would play out.
And now I feel numb, but also as if someone had severed one of my limbs.
Rest in peace my Little Halloween Cat. You deserved so much better.
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