Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened.
Anatole France (1844-1924)
As I had mentioned in my last year-end review I was the "new" owner of two cats from Catherine Garcia's house, Ashes and Ginger. They're both tuxedos, black with white chins, bellies, and paws. It's been a joy to have them with me.
If you have noticed, I had to use a contraction when writing. There is a reason. One cat is still in the present tense; the other is not. It is with a lingering sadness that I pen another pet obituary.
This post is about the cat who adopted me.
This story is about "my baby".
This biography is about Ginger.
A Box Of Fur
It was 2009 when I came home one day to find this sign taped to the door of my office/dressing room:
ENTER AT
YOUR OWN RISK.
ATTACK GINGER
KITTY INSIDE.
(I still have that sign.)
That was the first time I met Ginger. She originally belonged to Catherine's mother, Norma Allen. Norma, for a time, would transfer between an assisted living facility and a rehab hospital a few times. When that happened, Ginger would come live with us, transported in a cardboard carrying container. (Needless to say, but her loathing of that mode of moving was born there.)
Willow and Ashes were also with Catherine and me at the time. Acclimating the cats to each other was a challenge; as I learned later, Ginger was not socially well-adjusted. So she spent most of her time in my room, adapting to my personal aromas and pheromones. The bond between us began there. When Norma permanently was confined to the rehab hospital, we added one more animal to the menagerie.
"Mama" Kitty
Ginger did eventually come to tolerate the other cats. She wisely, however, avoided the dogs we also had at the place. She split her time between the master bedroom and my office, especially when I was there. I would find her in an open dresser drawer quite often. She would snuggle into my laundry basket as well. But the place she loved the most was my lap.
She was always an indoor cat. She ventured outside only once, as far as I knew. It was November 12 2011. (I have the exact date because of an e-mail exchange with someone.) She was gone for about sixteen hours before she snuck her was back to my office. It never happened again.
The bond between us grew with the passing years. If I was lying down, she would lie on me, either on my torso or side. She would use my hand for a pillow. When she was the most relaxed, she would allow me to rub her belly. When I retired for the night, she would lay near me, sometimes next to my head.
It was a flattering way to say, "I trust you."
A True Companion
For the last eight years of her life, the bond between us was incredibly special. It was put to the test in 2023. Remember when I left the area for that summer? Guess who I took with me?
There was even one night in October when I was living out of my car when a special moment happened. I looked toward Catherine's house when I saw the light in the room I was using was on. There was a cat in the window. I went down to look closer.
It was Ginger. She was sitting there, as regal as ever. She seemed to be saying to me, "I will be here for you."
Sixteen months later, I had her (as well as Ashes) in my possession.
Signs Of The (End) Times
She did have one very annoying habit. Whenever something was not right in her world, whether the food and/or water bowl(s) were empty or the litterbox needed cleaning, she would let me know of her displeasure by using my bed as her litterbox. She did have a history of urinary tract infections, so that may have been a cause of that as well.
It was also a warning of what was to come.
On April 26, at 7:00 AM, I rose for the day. Ten minutes later, I heard her scratching the covers on the bed. Yes, she did it again. I thought it was because I wasn't giving here the attention she wanted at the time.
April 30 was a different story. She vomited bile. She had done this before when UTI's were the diagnosis. I took her to an urgent veterinary clinic that afternoon. However, the diagnosis from the attending vet was not what I wanted to here.
She was having chronic kidney failure, developing probably over the last two years. She didn't have much time left. I opted for palliative care.
But she wanted to fight. I was hoping to get her appetite back and go from there. The follow up exam at my regular vet's place a week later offered a little encouragement. But there were more signs saying the end was near.
I had a strange dream on May 10. Picture if you will a cross between a tidal pool and a swamp, in black and white. The tide was coming in. Then, I heard me say, "Ginger's gone." That startled me awake.
As cats are want to do when ill, she was isolating herself. I found her in different places about the apartment, but always hiding in plain sight. Around 5:00 AM on May 11, I went looking for her. She came out from under the futon, one of two places where it would be a challenge to retrieve her. After taking a few steps, she collapsed. She was tired and weak, as she had stopped eating.
As I was working on a post later that morning, I remembered I had saved this poem shortly after Zoe was euthanized.
The Last BattleIf it should be that I grow frail and weakAnd pain should keep me from my sleep,Then will you do what must be done,For this — the last battle — can't be won.You will be sad I understand,But don't let grief then stay your hand,For on this day, more than the rest,Your love and friendship must stand the test.We have had so many happy years,You wouldn't want me to suffer so.When the time comes, please, let me go.Take me to where to my needs they'll tend,Only, stay with me till the endAnd hold me firm and speak to meUntil my eyes no longer see.I know in time you will agreeIt is a kindness you do to me.Although my tail its last has waved,From pain and suffering I have been saved.Don't grieve that it must be youWho has to decide this thing to do;We've been so close — we two — these years,Don't let your heart hold any tears.— Unknown
It was the final push I needed.
At 4:55 PM, I made her last vet appointment.
The Last Hours
Sometime around 5:00 AM on May 12, I brought Ginger on the bed with me. Even in her failing condition, she still reached a paw out to me. Her crying as I put her in her carrying container was muted. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.
The appointment was at 10:00 AM at the other animal hospital associated with this group. Delayed at a railroad crossing, I got there ten minutes late, then waited another five minutes before we was received. Checking in provided me the time to made decisions about her remains. As with the other pets back at the house, I did decide to keep her cremains.
We were taken to what was called the "Quiet Room". Its main feature was a cabinet where the procedure would take place. After a few minutes, the vet came to speak with me. We reviewed her last exam; I filled in details. He then explained the procedure to me, then left me alone with Ginger.
I gave an anguished cry. My head knew this was the right thing to do, but my heart still wanted her to die of her own volition. I still wanted her in my life, but not like this.
Around 10:35 AM the vet and a vet tech entered the room. The tech administered a muscle relaxant which would take about fifteen minutes to become effective. One again, I was left along with her. During the next twenty minutes, as she laid in my lap, more peaceful than she had been for the last month, I prayed. I thanked God for creating this beautiful creature, for bringing her into my life, for allowing me to take care of her. Then I offered her back to Him.
It was around 10:55 AM when the vet entered for the last time. We took her to that cabinet and laid her on her right side. I got down on one knee to look at her and stroke her chin (her favorite spot for affection) and the top of her head. He then administered the dose of phenytoin/pentobarbital. While I did not see the injection, I did hear something of a whooshing sound.
The wait was not long.
At 11:02 AM, she took her last breath and heartbeat.
The vet left us alone. I took just a couple of minutes looking at her lifeless body, then covered it with a towel, leaving only her head visible. Then I left, after being briefly consoled by the vet.
Post Mortem
May 28 was when her cremains were ready for pick up. I have them. I have her collar and tags. I have her front paw prints. I have photos (which I will share later as an update.) I have memories.
She was part of my life for about 16 years. I was her life all of her life.
There is a quote in both offices that warms my heart.
"Love is a four-legged word."
I hope to see her on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge.
