Not Long Enough

 

In early November of 2002, I brought two tiny kittens to our home.  It all started with my daughter, who returned from school one day with the announcement that “Sam’s cat has kittens!  Can we have one?” 

Dusty chose me as her person early on, and started our journey of eighteen years by grooming my face three times each morning.  It was so important to her that I had to let her do it, but let me tell you, if you’ve never felt a cat tongue on your eyelids, it’s not something I’d recommend. 

She was full of interesting antics, from clawing a hole in a window screen to lead her brother outside to carrying Hershey’s kisses by their tags so they looked like little bells hanging from her teeth.  Salmon, tuna, and chicken were among her favourite treats, and in recent years she’d sit and cry at your feet if you dared to have any of these in the kitchen without sharing them with her. 

Dusty’s mission in life was clear – she needed to look after me, and she did so consistently to the best of her ability.  She took me on walks – running ahead to ensure the way was clear, and returning to lead me on.  When she felt we’d gone far enough, she led me safely home.  Her efforts in contributing to the family’s diet led her to bring me squirrels, mice, occasional birds, and even a rabbit as large as her tiny frame.  At her largest, Dusty was only about eight pounds, and yet she was the supreme hunter of all for many years. 

She was with me through moves, through despair, loneliness, homelessness, more moves and many life changes.  She accepted other cats with equanimity but always maintained her role as the dainty, quiet queen of the household.  It wasn’t a point she ever needed to clarify – the other cats were somehow always cognizant of her rulership. 

In the last year or two, Dusty seemed to develop dementia, and would wander the house crying.  While it was never obvious what she was looking for, picking her up for a snuggle never failed to solve the problem – at least for a little while.  We engaged in all kinds of interesting conversations as I attempted to answer her cries.  Perhaps she was frustrated with me, but I’d like to think she saw the humour in it. 

Dusty spent a great deal of her last years curled up on me or close to me.  In eighteen years, that bond never changed or weakened.  And while she’d lost most of her teeth and had a bevy of medicines each day to help maintain her quality of life, she never stopped trying to care for me. 

I said goodbye to Dusty early yesterday morning, and while I will – and continue to – love many other cats in so many ways, there was a unique bond between us.  Eighteen years wasn't nearly long enough.  My precious kitten, I miss you so.

(PS - the lesson?  Love the ones who matter to you while you have them)

... just because it's Dusty and I have them, a few extra pictures:

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