Whattfisausername

Yesterday my 16 year old childhood cat, Dorita, passed away. It was sudden but very peaceful. She simply curled up on my Mom’s chest and let go. For a cat who absolutely hated anyone that wasn’t our immediate family, it was for the best, rather than having to take her to vet.

She’s been part of my family since I was a kid. We got her on the last of summer baseball that year. She way the runt of the litter, and a rare orange female tabby. We named her Dorita after Doritos chips, but with the “a” because my younger self didn’t want to give my girl cat a masculine name.

She was a weird little bitch. Hating everyone and looking miserable when given attention, but meowing pathetically if not given enough pets. She would only sit on your lap if you were sitting on the love seat with the faux-sheepskin blanket. Scared of her own shadow, but loved to play fight with my dad between the bars of the railing.

Loved to go outside to snack on grass, and then hoss when we brought her back in. And in the winter we had to give her a snowball to lick before we left the house for the day.

Christmas was her favourite time of year. She loved to nap under the Christmas tree. She never attacked the ornaments like other cats, just sitting and watching. And on Christmas Day she would get crazy stupid from all her new catnip toys.

My final collection for fashion school (undergrad) is aesthetically inspired by Orange cats like her.

Towards the end she began to struggle with walking and going up and down stairs, staying almost exclusively on the main floor of our house. We also believe she developed dementia as she would begin to call out anytime she couldn’t directly see us, and would forget that she was just feed. But nothing indicated that she was in pain. She just seemed to be showing her age.

And now she’s gone.

There’s no one to feed in the morning. No one trying to crawl into the fridge. No one to scoop up and hold like a baby as she gives you the stink eye. No one to wrap in a blanket burrito. No one to give brushes or combies and then collect the fur of.

I held her for a few minutes after she died. I’m glad I did. Even if her eyes couldn’t shut properly and she looked weird and creepy. Even though she was so stiff and heavy. Even though she smelled a little funky. I don’t think her loss would feel real if I hadn’t see her up close, only on my mom’s chest. I had to wrap her in the blanket I just crocheted this past December and cuddle her to know she was really gone.

Then this morning I carried her, in her favourite cat tent, still wrapped in that blanket, to the vet to drop her off for cremation. I can’t describe how doing so felt. But I’m proud of myself for doing it, rather then shrinking away and having my mom go by herself,

It’s only been a day and I already miss her so much. I keep looking at the last scratch she accidentally gave me, on my hand, from a week ago. It’s strange how just days ago I couldn’t wait for the scratch to fade. Now I’m dreading it.

I know in the coming days I’ll find more things to cry over.

I don’t know how to end this post.

Death is an end, but my love and grief for Dorita is certainly not at the end. She will always be my childhood pet, my creative muse, a part of my soul.