Weedy

They called her Skunkweed.

That's a hell of a name to give something, never mind that this particular name was attached to one of the sweetest animals it has been my pleasure to have in my life.  It was decided, pretty much upon hearing that name, that from that moment on, she would be forever known as Weedy.

When Weedy entered mine and Ms. Darkstar's life, she was already ten years old.  Her owners had a dilemma and through some quirks of fate, along with a new baby and allergies, I believe, Weedy had to find a new home. Ms. Darkstar learned of her while working at one of the fabulous companies she temped for during her time in the Frozen Tundra.  The wrinkle in the plan was that Ms. Darkstar wanted to adopt a smaller, and younger, feline, but one look at Weedy and no other cat would have done.  Add the fact that she was an elder cat, and elder cats and animal shelters aren't the best match, and Weedy was pretty much a done adoption.  We set out to pick her up after I got out of work.

I still remember her reaction to meeting Willow.  After some hissing and fluffing things calmed down to a point where both parties agreed to disagree.  Willow had no problem at all with his new playmate/sister, and Weedy wanted nothing to do with him, going as far as to leave the room if he should happen to enter.  Every now and then we'd catch them playing together, but most of the time each cat stayed their distance.

Ms. Darkstar was motivated to adopt another cat mainly because it was clear that Willow was a daddy's boy, and she wanted something that would cuddle and love all up on her.    To a point, Weedy did think Ms. Darkstar made a wonderful cushion on those chilly Frozen Tundra mornings, but for the rest of the time, guess who she gravitated towards ... yup, me.

Weedy had her little quirks about her.  When she would wake up from her nap, she'd get out of her cat bed and emit a series of grumpy little meows before stalking over to myself or Ms. Darkstar and demanding her wake-up petting.  If we weren't quick enough, or if we didn't hear her come in, we'd feel a gentle tapping on our arms or legs.  We'd look down and see Weedy looking up at us with her bright, green eyes, expecting the attention she felt she so rightly deserved.

Weedy didn't like being held or cuddled.  She would, after we first got her, climb into my lap and, if no one else (like a certain Ms. I've been mentioning here) was around, would snuggle her head under my chin, or occasionally, sniff inside my ear.  The whurffling sound, along with the purring noise and the cat breath inside my ear, tickled a lot, but I let her get her snuggling time whenever I could.  In later years, she would just flop herself up on my desk, usually on top of my keyboard, or just sit in front of the monitor as if to say, "Your work now is to pet and worship me, for I am beautiful."

We had lots of nicknames for our dear girl: Grumpy Weedy, Momma Weedy, Little Miss Whurrflepurr (which came around because of the incident mentioned above), but never Skunkweed.  We did, however, learn WHY she had been given that name, and it only took about a month to figure it out.

She had the softest head bonk.  It's like she barely even touched you, but you felt it tickling on your leg.  Or her way of waking you up with a well-placed, cold, wet nose on any exposed skin.   She would greet me after a long day of work with a litany of complaints, expressed as loud meows if I didn't arrive home when she expected me to do so.

Each of those memories makes me smile a bit.

I wish those memories would stand out in my head more.  All I can see now is the replay of her last night with us.  Flashes of the past month.  Lots of "what if I had..." and "if only I ..." dancing around those final, brief moments, leading to the trip to the emergency vet clinic, the grim prognosis, and more importantly, the statement that, even with aggressive treatments, there was no guarantee she'd last the night.

We gathered in Exam Room 2. Our poor girl, thin and weak, panting in an effort to breathe ...

We petted her, kissed her, reassured her.  We told her how much we loved her, how the pain would be over soon, and we were right here, we weren't going to leave.

The vet hooked up the syringe.  And pushed the cocktail in.

Weedy's breathing slowed, and slowed, and finally stopped.  As did her heart.

Weedy had passed.

We spent a long time with her, just brushing her soft fur, feeling her body grow cold.  We did all that we could.

This week will be one of the longest weeks for us.  Every day, I will expect to see her sleeping in her cat bed underneath my desk.

Or feel her soft bonk on my leg.

Or hear the grumpy meows.

Or feel the soft tap-tapping on my arm, and I'll look down and see her bright green eyes staring at me.

I'd give ten lifetimes for any of that.

I miss her.

And her name was Weedy.