I had a cat.
Her name was Harold, and there’s a funny story behind that. As a teeny-tiny kitten, her foster mommy sexed her wrong, and named “him” Harold. The name stuck, as she was already answering to “Harold” when she became my cat, several months later.
I had Harold since November 2001, when she was six months old. She was sweet and fluffy white-and-tortoise-shell brown. She had a little pink nose and bright yellow eyes. She had a tiny “mew” that she never outgrew.
She had an independent streak and could hunt anything: birds, bugs, lizards, mice, even a squirrel or two. She could sense when I felt sad, and she would find me, lie next to me, and purr, kneading her little needle claws into the blankie. I would sometimes cry into her fur, and she just purred even more and didn’t go away.
She grew fat but could still run and jump; I called her my little Mongolian cat-pony.
She was my cat.
She became acutely sick just this past week; and I never really noticed just how sick she was, sleep-deprived and mommy-on-duty as I was. I never noticed until this past weekend, when it was too late.
She had acute liver failure, and she was put down this morning. And I couldn’t be there when the vet put her down, because I was home with the baby. I couldn’t be there when my other “baby” died.
My cat Harold: May 2001-November 19, 2007. Rest in peace, little one…