A Stubby Good-Bye

Her mother was a six-toed silver-point Siamese named 'Little Bit', who weighed less than six pounds, and delivered six kittens into my lap. The delivery, understandably, was a difficult one, which caused total panic in me, and three calls to the vet while it was in progress. The first kitten was born breech: that is, tail first, instead of head first. In my panic-stricken state, I clutched a hair too hard at the little tail, and it subsequently fell off, leaving only a stub behind. The remaining five were born in the proper way, and had elegant names, like 'Tiger Lily', 'Cinnamon Purr', and 'Henrietta'; but the first-born came to be known merely as 'Stubby'.

She was colored a soft calico gray, with shaded areas of white, black, and orange, spinning through her fur, and she had six toes on each forepaw, and seven on each of her rear paws. She was a formidable fighter and mouser; and, true to her Siamese heritage, she was a one-person cat: mine. Fierce, faithful, affectionate, and loyal, she belonged to me, and was extremely chary of anyone else. As time went by, she gradually came to tolerate, and even accept pets from, other people, but always with a sort of reserved aloofness.

Stubby slept on the bed with me at night, comforted me through a divorce, the death of a loved daughter, the accident of an equally loved son that left a man dead, the total revamping of a career, and the final restructuring of a life. For seventeen years, she was the constant friend and companion, faithful protector and fierce guardian. And this year, the morning after Hallowe'en, I had to call my vet, and put her to death.

It's a harsh-sounding word: death. Fierce, formidable: like she was. For my children and others, I use euphemisms: 'passed away'; 'put to sleep'; 'crossed over'. I do this out of care for their feelings. For myself, I prefer the hard sound of truth. It comforts me.