A Beloved Friend's Upcoming Departure

The house smells of pending death, a sickening smell that has its own odor footprint. No amount of Glade Scented Plug-Ins masks the smell; the smell is omnipresent, the somber note amongst the green apple smell wafting from the wall units.

Ariel, my beloved cat of 12 years, is dying. When you pick her up, you can feel her bones. She doesn't walk well, as if her back legs are their own entity. Her once sparkling green eyes are cloudy, and she often plaintively meows to me. She spends her day either in the kitchen, lying next to her water bowl, or on the dog's pillow.

Ariel was my first true friend in Lexington, KY. I found her one night while returning from a jaunt to the Kroger to satisfy my urge for a strange craving--Pizzerias and milk. It was raining, and I hurriedly walked from the store to my apartment cutting through the back alley labeled "South Ashland Extension." 

I heard meows, but there was no sign of a cat. Then I looked up the tree, and there, on a limb, was a black kitten meowing. At first I wasn't going to interfere--it climbed up there, surely it could get down. Then I listened to its cries and decided I couldn't ignore it. I climbed up the tree and cradled the black kitten in my arms. The decision was made impulsively, and I walked her to my apartment. Of course it was a "no pets allowed" apartment, but I wasn't going to keep her. I was just going to share some milk and some tuna…then send her on her way--after the rain storm, of course.

 
I gave her some milk and noticed that she was covered with fleas. Off to the store I ran to buy flea shampoo and a flea collar…and a cat litter box, litter, and food. I scooped her up and placed her in the bathroom sink, and she didn't cry at all as I scrubbed her fur. The fleas were so plentiful that they were actually under my nails and floating dead in the water. After three successive flea baths, it was time for the collar. I found it remarkable that I wasn't clawed by this cat, who just kept watching me with hypnotic green eyes.

I dried her off, and she carefully explored my one-bedroom furnished apartment, an apartment that I will always think of fondly, as it was the first place that was entirely mine. She curled up on my beige velvet rocking chair--my reading chair--and fell fast asleep. She's been with me ever since, curled up in one place or another. Now she's underfoot in the kitchen, often complaining about an empty water bowl or trying to snatch a minute or two of my time.

I named her Ariel for Sylvia Plath's poem about her horse, but with the cat's personality she could have been named for Shakespeare's spirit in the Tempest. She’s bright, headstrong, fiercely loyal, and loving; she comes when her name is called like a dog.

I learned from the secretary of the English department that a man who bred Abyssinians in my neighborhood had some kittens who escaped from his basement one night. Jon knew the man and told me that the cats were not loved. Truly the little sprite found a better life with me, the doted on companion of a single young woman. Jon always stressed that people don't find cats; cats find people. 

I took her to be declawed and neutered. I paid for her operation on a twenty dollar a month payment plan. The local vet took pity on my graduate school status; she refused to take my credit card when I handed it to her to pay the bill, “Just a little bit at a time; I need to make sure you're both eating." Those were the lean years when I got buy on a few hundred dollars a month--Ariel always had treats, though, even if I were eating Ramen noodles and broccoli, one of my staples.

The apartment manager Ms. Lucy was fond of me; when she saw Ariel by accident she told me that she didn't see anything, but try to keep her out of the windows.

She's licked away countless tears and walked on my computer keyboard hundreds of times. She was the only thing that I cared about during the divorce settlement--the cat was mine, even though she loves my ex-husband, too.

She's flown on airplanes with me and traveled in my car up and down the Eastern seaboard. She's played in my garden and slept on my bed.

Now we've come full circle. I plan on bathing her this weekend to prepare her for the eventual. She's small enough now to fit in the bathroom sink, and that makes me very sad. I will rock her and talk to her--just in case she doesn't know how much she's meant and how grateful that I am that I found her on that rainy night.

 
The goodbye has come too soon.