A pet owner's hardest decision

Muppy, a one-person cat if there ever was one. Photo by Anne Shelley Muppy, a one-person cat if there ever was one. Photo by Anne Shelley Image 1 of / 1 Caption Close A pet owner's hardest decision 1 / 1 Back to Gallery

The summer Muppy came home with me, the Bush in the White House was named George Herbert Walker, and the Clinton running for president was a little-known former governor of Arkansas. Cutting-edge people were beginning to use e-mail. I had yet to visit the World Wide Web.

It had been a difficult year. My beloved old cat, Pepe, had died. My father had been recently diagnosed with terminal cancer. I sought lightness, humor, small comfort, nothing too serious.

I chose Muppy at the SPCA, ironically now, because she was young and pretty, kittenish but standoffish. A calico, white underneath and mixed gray and orange tabby markings, she had a striped nose and two-toned ears. She was just a year old but had already had a litter of kittens. Her anxiety level suggested some problems in her early life, but I don't know why she ended up at the shelter.

She hid for four solid days when I brought her home and freaked out every time I moved to a new apartment. But she came to trust me, a trust that grew quickly to love and devotion. I'm fond of most cats and some people. Muppy despised all other cats and nearly all people. She was a one-person cat, and I was her person.

I know it's not the healthiest situation, but it is gratifying to know another being builds her day around your arrival home. She was my excuse for ducking out of social events early, avoiding long trips, eventually even working late. I wish she had been nicer to other people. Especially my boyfriend, who likes cats and was unfailingly gracious both to and about her. She literally bit the hand of a friend who occasionally fed her.

(And I'm weirdly proud of how vicious she became at the vet's. They had a special notation about keeping her away from other animals on her chart, and the vet -- who has experience with large felines -- compared her attitude to that of a lion.)

At home, though, she was a comfort and a source of amusement every single day. She kept up kitten behavior well into her teens, instigating games of Chase Me and hiding then popping out of my backpack. Her long favorite toys were little plastic tabs from juice bottles, and she used to bring them onto the bed at night for play sessions. For years I had the habit of sleepily stowing these under my pillow when so awakened.

She sat with me, or near me, or on me, when she could. She talked loudly and a lot, informing me of meal times and birds flying by, and chiming in when I was on the phone. She listened for my footsteps coming home or the sound of the shower turning off and always greeted me, anxious and meowing, at whatever door separated us.

Whether I was spacing out or reading or needing consolation after a hard day, she would sit on my lap on the couch or my chest on the bed and knead and purr. Resting peacefully like that with Muppy was more soothing than medication, or Hawaii, or any therapy I can imagine. At night she liked to sleep on my side, with her paws draped over my shoulder. She was only nine and a half pounds at her heaviest, barely six the last years, delicate and light on her feet.

Over the years it's not really surprising that my funny, second-hand casual-comfort kitty became such an essential part of me. Of course she did. Fifteen and a half years later I might as well have had "vulnerable" stamped on my forehead. Muppy too.

This winter she left me. It's been cold and dark, and I've been working intellectually toward pulling away for several weeks. But now I'm mostly just so so sad. There were a few weeks of clear decline -- digestion problems, weight loss, an increasing number things she could no longer do. A couple months ago I spent some time on the Pets forum on Craigslist reading other people's stories of loss, and a recurring theme is that when it's time, you'll know.

It was, and I did, though part of me kept denying it, thinking she could pull through or there could just be another pill. But she finally came to me, asking in her loud squawky voice for help, barely even able to blink her affection at me any more. We spent the last morning just sitting together.

The Vet on Wheels guy came with a day's notice up from Daly City and confirmed what I knew. (True to form, she hissed at and peed on him.) He was gentle and compassionate with both of us, and administered the shots while I curled next to her on the living room floor, wetting her fur with the tears I was unable to suppress. Afterwards, he wrapped her little body in a towel with care and reverence, took it away in a carrier, and left me alone with my grief.

People have been so nice and sympathetic. I volunteer at the shelter, so I can at least spend quiet time with other cats. But it's not the same, not even close, to what used to be my normal life.

At home, I can put down a plate of food without guarding it, walk across the kitchen barefoot with no stray litter to step on, sit down in black pants that stay black. I could sleep for hours undisturbed, if only I could sleep. Come home whenever I choose. But coming home has been the worst. Sometimes silence can break your heart.