Streak Goes to the Great Kitty Box in the Sky
(and probably kicks all the dirt out of it, too)
December, 1995
About once a week, someone asks me if
that's a "dead kitty" picture to the right.
C'mon. Not even I am that tasteless. This is just a "sleeping kitty" picture.
It's one of the two ways that I most remember Streak. The second pose is described below.
It's been a while since Streak passed on, and it's been difficult for me to write this. But, it's time for me to write this, if for no other reason than to help me let her go.
Streak did very well on her first round of medication. For a time, it returned her to her good old rambunctious state. In many ways, she was even better than new, which is strictly a matter of definition, because she was feeling so good that she was able to return to all those old kitty activities that earned her the nickname "psycho-cat" by her former owners. I almost missed the peacefulness of when she was sick, but not quite.
Unfortunately, she didn't last long. She never entirely stopped taking her medications. She was such a fussy eater that we kept feeding her the steroids, just in an effort to keep her appetite up. It never quite did that for her, although it did keep the household balance of power tipped in her favor.
I never did train her to quit scratching the tops of my chairs. If anything, I taught her that it upset me so much, that she'd do it as much as possible when she'd see me coming in the front door, just to demonstrate who was boss. Unfortunately, I did train her to take her pills without fighting; this is something no cat should ever have to learn. She'd sit patiently in my lap, open her mouth, accept the pills, and obediently swallow them without a fight.
Well, she did give me the occasional nick as she'd climb down, just to remind me that she'd rather be doing something else (like eating the title to my car, or scratching the tops of my chairs).
Sometime in mid-July, she started having problems again. She had problems breathing, and she had a nasty cough, and she just quit eating even the pitiful little bit she had been. I took her back to the vet, who found her tumor to be swelling, and her lymph nodes to be enlarged. We put her on stronger antibiotics, and increased her steroid dosage.
This helped for a couple of weeks, but then she went downhill fast. Before too long, she couldn't even hold her pills down, much less any real food.
She spent her last weekend straining to take every breath. She spent a lot of time cuddling up to me, wheezing, and looking at me as if to ask me if I could make her pain go away. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to spend so much energy, just trying to breathe. It was so difficult for her that I doubt that she could sleep. Somehow, I finally got the idea that she might actually prefer the alternative to the pain. I just didn't know if I had the strength.
I left work early the following Monday, so that I could take Streak back to the vet. The poor dear lost her bladder control while I was carrying her in to the waiting room, but to tell the truth, I think I would have done a lot worse in her position. We both knew why we were there.
The vet tried to break it to me as gently as possible. Having undoubtedly been through this many times before, he wisely anticipated the half a box of Kleenex I was going to need.
She went gently. She was very tense, but didn't put up a fight. I didn't know this, but when we put our pets to sleep, their eyes don't close. This meant that I had to see the life drain out of her eyes; that fire that would never go out went out. Her look of determination, her ceaseless defiance just drained away, to be replaced by one final look of desperate surrender to one more thing that she just couldn't overcome.
Her pain finally went away, but so far, mine hasn't, and it hasn't felt like it's going to let up any time soon.
I've often wished that Streak understood English, because if she did, I could have explained everything to her.
I could have started by explaining why she had to hurt so much. I could have told her how much I treasured that determined look on her face when she didn't really want to be held right then. I could have told her how much comfort she gave me when I'd come home from school, exhausted, and she'd curl up under the sheets next to me to purr me to sleep. I could have told her how much I enjoyed how talkative she was, or at least I could have told her more eloquently than I did with all my attempts to meow back at her.
I could have told her how I'd never met such a spirited kitten as her. I could have told her how I'd never met such a loving, affectionate kitten as her.
I could also have asked her if it was really OK that I stopped her suffering the way I did, because to tell the truth, I'm never going to be entirely sure that it was OK with her.
But, it's just as well that she didn't understand English, because even with this language, I've never been able to explain to anyone why she had to suffer so, nor have I ever been able to adequately explain how much I loved her, how much she comforted me, and how unashamed I felt about having let myself get this sappy over a little kitten.
This cat really was a winner.
When it was clear that she was going to have to be put down soon, I did a lot of thinking about how to best say good-bye. For a while, I even considered having her stuffed, so that I could display her in the pose that I most remember: Standing on her hind legs, with that fire in her eyes, with her claws at the ready, and with remaining half of the title to my car sticking out of her mouth. (If she could talk, I could have asked her how she got hold of that, or for that matter, how she'd figured out my filing system in the first place.)
I didn't do that because it'd be a bit too morbid. Sometimes, I'm sorry I didn't. Instead, I have a few dozen pictures of her, most of which have been scanned into my computer. They're something to look at when I'm feeling a bit in need of her company.
I had also made a couple of half-hearted attempts to get a recording of her voice. She refused, asking me to let her keep what little dignity remained. For a kitten who spent every waking moment meowing or purring, she certainly did a magnificent job of clamming up as soon as she saw a microphone. So, all I have to remember her by are my memories, a few digitized pictures, and the few words I've written about her.
I've though about getting a new kitten from time to time since she's gone, but I've never really been able to put my heart into it. At first, I was concerned about bringing a kitten into an apartment that had housed a cat infected with feline leukemia. I figured we needed a chance to let the place air out, and let any left over virus to move on to better places.
I think that's an excuse, because even when I have gone to interview prospective kittens, they just haven't shown me the magic that I saw in Streak the first time I met her. I still love all cats, but I just don't think I'm going to be ready to be a kitty-mom again any time soon.
After having written this, I am compelled to write this postscript:
In that last paragraph, I spoke too soon. Three of my classmates have conspired to help me get over Streak's passing. They have given to me a new kitty warrior, who I have named Hank (actually, that's a whole 'nother story, all by itself). He is a worthy successor to Streak. From the two days I've known him, I can see that he's entirely different in character from Streak. Next year, I'll bore you with pictures of him.
Comments? Feel free to discuss this page in our online forum