A Ginger Kitten Named Tasha

Reaching in the dryer, I grabbed a warm towel, crooning to the small dying cat crumpled at my feet, “I’m here Tasha, I’m here Tasha.” Swaddling her in soft warmth, I could feel her relax for a moment, her little paws, always spotless, were ice cold.

Rocking her back and forth as I waited for our vet, my mind spun back to rocking her eleven years ago. She and her brother were abandoned two-week old kittens, dehydrated and dying they had been dropped off at a vets office. The office called me and asked if I wanted to try and save them, their other three siblings had died and these remaining two were close to death. I jumped in my car and brought them home.

I spilled them into Justin’s lap when I returned home, he was on the couch recovering from another surgery, he spent many summers in between college semesters having reconstructive surgeries on his feet. I warmed washcloths in the dryer and he wrapped them and held them while I fixed bottles. And so started the great love between he and Tasha in particular. We spent the next several weeks awake at all hours feeding and warming the kittens. Justin looked up at me one night and apologized to me. He told me that he was dreadful sorry to have given us such a hard time when he was a teenager. He realized as he was up tending to the kittens and cleaning their nursery box and their little furry behinds, that his dad and I must have put in endless hours caring for he and his brother. I told him there was no need to apologize, it was no trouble at all, he and his brother made life worth living.

Tasha’s labored breathing drew me back to the present. I tried to imprint on my heart her little pointed face, her magnificent ginger stripes, so rare in a female. I was expecting the vet at any moment and I needed to make sure that the workers from BG&E who were installing gas lines had not blocked our driveway. I tucked Tasha in my office and went outside to find that yes, our driveway was blocked just as our vet was arriving. I strode up the street looking for whomever was in charge and demanded that our driveway be unblocked. At that same moment, they hit a water main. Bottom line, I had to bundle my dying cat in my arms and walk to the post office where there was a cul-de-sac that the vet could park his mobile unit. I know it hurt her to be carried, her hoarse little meows shredded my heart.

Our vet and his assistant are two of the finest individuals I have ever had the privilege of meeting, they are kind and compassionate. They eased Tasha out of suffering into a place of peace. They wrapped her back in her towel and offered a carrier box to me. I now had to walk my dead cat back home. I thanked them, but I wanted her in my arms. It was so absurd walking past the post office and up the street to our house, sobbing, carrying my dead cat. Carrying her to a house with no running water and the clamor of loud digging machines and workmen yelling.

Her absence is great. I could talk to Tasha about a boy we both knew and missed. She was my keeper of memories, a small furry link to a young man with strong gentle hands.