thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pixie has gone Home On 25 November, 1989, my parents brought home two tabby kittens: the two-month-old orange tom would be dubbed Frisky II, and the black/grey/brown molly with the white bib and socks would become known as Pixie. Shannon, you see, was five, and I was seven, and these were what we considered some really snappy names. While Frisky opened up to us more or less right away, Pixie retained much of the paranoia she'd adapted at the animal shelter, sharing a cage with a dozen family members and filling the dubious office of the runt. It was another month or two before we first really bonded. I love this part of the story, so if you'll permit me ... okay. One winter morning I fumbled, pyjama-clad and bed-headed, across my bedroom to the skirted vanity table all my friends and I still had from the '80s. Under the gaudy pleated fabric, I spotted Pixie. She was so neat. She was the cool girl I wanted desperately to befriend. I reached in with some caution, expecting her to recoil from my advance, or worse, to make a go for my fingers, but hoping nonetheless to express my adoration with an ear-scratching. I was met with the most enthusiastic nuzzles I'd ever encountered, and if my memory serves me well, they lasted a good-sized portion of an hour. Delighted, I gave my parents the news: Pixie said she loved me! Time kicked into high gear, as it always does when you're pushing eight years of age and you're deep in love. Pixie saw me through numerous transitions: training bras; brand new schools where nobody liked me; first love; the death of my favourite grandmother; and every haircolour known to the grocery store. And I saw her milestones, as well: the arrival of Licorice; removing her own spay stitches on the day we were scheduled to have them pulled anyway; hunting down a blue jay and being rescued, by Mum, from a vengeful, descending flock with just seconds to spare, and damned if those suckers weren't three times her size, because at most, Pixie never weighed more than six or seven pounds, even in winter; the arrival of Planck. Then, in June, the diagnosis. Chronic renal failure. Through it all, Pixie maintained her affectionate, neurotic identity. Moments locked into my memory include her tiny weight on my stomach as I lay on the sofa, her nickel-sized paws on either of my shoulders as she kissed each of my cheeks European-style, her delicate frame cradled against me as we waltzed, oblivious to the world around us, in my bedroom, in the kitchen, in the living room. I'll also never forget the feeling of her teeth on either side of my septum one time when, at ten, I picked her up a little too suddenly. But if anyone in the world were to bite me on the inside of the nose, it might as well have been her. She was worth it a millionfold. Kidney failure is a brutal enemy, but at the time of her diagnosis, Pixie had a long summer ahead of her: Shannon took off to London for a month, then returned, at which time Pix's health took a downturn. Her back legs were giving out, a horrific thing to witness, and she was fatigued and dull-eyed. We took her to Dr. Peterson, who didn't expect her to last another week, but prescribed sub-cutaneous fluids for in-home administration. Standard procedure. Three times a day until stabilised, then once daily, then thrice weekly, then ... we'll see. Pix rallied, big time. She started eating and drinking again, bounding around, making her trademark leaps, even checking out the outdoors for the first time in years. We were all in awe. Then I took care of Al's family's home for two weeks, and although I visited every day, the cats all knew I wouldn't truly be home until I was sleeping in my own bed again, and they treated me as such. It was when I came back for good that Pixie's grip began to loosen once more. She lost her appetite again, and grew thinner even than before. I made sure to get in a few dances and kisses. She began seeking darker crannies in which to curl up and rest. All day yesterday, the family seemed to sense she was, as I call it, preparing for liftoff. Last night I arrived home from work around 6:20 p.m. and, excepting washroom breaks and an attempt to eat something (Nutri-Grain bar, mixed berry) I stuck with her, supported her forepaws with an outstretched palm. Every now and then she lifted her head to greet the family entering the room, and she kneaded my hand. Both she and I phased in and out of consciousness and repeated our tiny hand-squeezes to make each other aware we were still there. Outside a blue jay was screaming like a banshee. Just a few minutes before 10:30, she began making hiccoughing noises. Mum said they were her heart and lungs seizing up. We sort of gathered around her, Mum, Dad, Licorice and I, in that corner of Shan's room, and told her over and over, we love you, thank you for being in our lives, we'll catch up to you someday, soon really, we love you, baby, it's okay, you can go, we love you, we love you. At just about the bottom of the hour, she made her exit. We cried, everybody cried, and we took turns holding her, and with more "I love you"s and delicate kisses on the head, we buried her finally-relaxed body in the back yard, in the spot where she used to stalk birds and insects and, sometimes, the guy cats. We held our version of an Irish wake, talking about her tenacity, her strength, her grace, how lucky we were to have had her, and for nearly fourteen years, no less. We spoke of hope that she'd enjoyed the run as well. We said hey, she's with Grandma. Grandma liked her. And Heidi promised Green Eyes would show her around, and ONC promised Fluffy would keep her company, and I suspect Frisky I and his Mama might be up there too, helping her bide the time until the other seven of us get off our butts and catch up. I also vomited no less than eight times over the course of the night. And we all cried. I suspect she's looking in now. I hope she'll still curl up on my stomach. I know that whatever the case, she's agile and vital again, and for that, I'm relieved on her behalf. I realise this is part of the bargain -- we have to be there at the beginning and the end. These are not offspring who will outlive us; they are to be cared for as children all the way down the road. They're purer than we are, so we say yes, you're worth this, you're worth the agony and more, I'll take you on, I'll see you through, I'll bookend your life with my own so you're always looked after; all you need do in return is consecrate my life with your own for as long as you can happily do so. Pix made it to fourteen years of age, and she died at home, on her own terms, with the family at her side. Given this, I hope she feels we fulfilled our end of the agreement. Because she gave us more than we expected, and enriched our lives beyond the limits of time. The fact that we were hers continues to serve as proof that we're a lucky family. I'll miss you, Pixie. I love you, and that's for infinity. ~ETK 04:31 - 03 September, 2003 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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