Goodbye, Rusty

Last night I had to say goodbye to an old friend.

Rusty and I lived with each other for nearly all of her nineteen years, even before Miz Becky and I started dating. I got her as a kitten, after she wandered onto a classmate's property out in the country. She could fit in my hand at the beginning, and I was immediately devoted to her.

At her last exam, four or five months ago, our vet said "At her age, most of her contemporaries have been dead for six years." And over the last several years, as Rusty passed sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, she seemed like she would go on forever. A little grayer, a little arthritic, maybe a little deaf (or just better at ignoring me), she could still sprint across the lawn like a young cat, even if she was the equivalent of 95 in human years.

And then about two months ago, she started fading out, as old cats do. She got lighter, and spent more time sitting in corners and under tables. In the last two weeks she'd been vomiting up hairballs, which we figured was just her usual end of summer shedding and puking ritual.

Two days ago, she took a turn for the worse, and last night we decided we had to at least get her some pain meds. I took her to the emergency clinic down the hill from us, and after a careful examination, the vet told me what I mostly expected: Rusty had some kind of large mass in her chest, and although we could probably make her comfortable for a few days, it was unlikely to be the kind of thing she was going to get better from.

Miz Becky and I had already talked about this possibilty before I left the house, and we had decided that we were ready to let Rusty go. The vet made all of her preparations, and I filled out paperwork and talked to Rusty.

She left peacefully, in my arms, at about 6:30.

I thought I had lost her once before, just after I moved to the Seattle area, when we were living in a house in the woods on Bainbridge Island. She ran out an open door and spent a week pretending to be a wild cat. I'd whistle for her when I was outside and would sometimes hear her typical chirrup sound in response, but I could never see her. One day as I got home from work I whistled as usual and heard her chirrup, much closer than she had been. I looked around and saw her sitting daintily on a log, licking her paw and looking back at me. I slogged thirty feet through the salal and sword ferns and picked her up. She was in perfect health; I expect she had been having a grand time hunting for her food and drinking water off leaves.

Besides her sweet personality, Rusty was also the fastest cat I've ever known. She'd sit in the bathtub after we had showered in the morning and snatch water droplets out of the air:

After The Kid was born, many people told us that our cats were going to become little mothers to her, acting protective or at least curious. Rusty, already a grand dame at sixteen, didn't bother to. She wasn't at all interested in The Kid, pro or con.

She eventually allowed The Kid to come close and pet her. The Kid called her Tutu Rusty, and I think Rusty was OK with that.

Goodbye, old friend. Good kitty. Good kitty.