2001 was the last Christmas Adam and I spent apart with our respective families.
His brother at the time was dealing with an unwanted litter of kittens.
So he turns around and says to Adam, “Merry Christmas – have a cat!”
And when I met up with Adam two days later, the first words he said to me were, “Merry Christmas – have a cat!”
[Now at this point, Adam will interject and remind me that actually it was a very romantic moment; I had to leave the room and (I think) he hid the cat in a box and I had to come in and find it – with most of his family looking on in great amusement.]
I must admit that, although I like cats a lot, when I first saw this one my first thought was, “Oh shit.”
Which were quite fitting words, as we then proceeded to drive from Sydney to Melbourne with a three week old kitten in our laps as we had no cat-cage to put her in. The smell of lactose-free milk does not shift easily out of car upholstery – just a tip.
But then we fell in love. We grew to love this lovely creature who Adam called Katie.
Katie was an affectionate cat – but not overburdening, either. She had her psycho moments like all cats do, but that was part of her charm. We went overboard with the photos (30 gig here still on the hard drive) like most couples who treat their pets as pseudo-children.
And because you all know I’m speaking in the past tense here, you know this story doesn’t have a happy ending.
Ten days after Keira was born, there was a knock at the door. Our next door neighbours, who loved Katie as much as us, were carrying a banana box with a tea-towel draped over the top. They were crying. I knew what they were going to say before they said it:
“She was just hit by a car.”
I was nursing (literally) Keira and I was crying, she was crying (GODDAMN HUNGRY HERE!), and my breasts were crying too.
“Should I look in there?” I said, nodding to the box.
They vehemently shook their heads. “She looks real bad.”
Disposing of the body was harder than you’d think. We have no backyard to dig up for burial and we didn’t feel right asking anyone else. Tipping her in the bin was out of the question. As was just dumping her out in the scrub.
So we paid an obscene amount of money to have her body taken to somewhere near Geelong to a pet crematorium, to be turned to ash and sent back to us in a cheap box, with her name inlaid on a (fake) brass plate.
But she is still my little girl, and I still am sad when my thoughts turn to her, little as it happens these days. She was only just over two years old when she died.
And that’s too short a stint for any family pet.
I do miss you.
