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| Name: |
Charlie
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Age: |
Deceased, Thirteen years old
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| Gender: |
Female
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Kind: |
Domestic shorthair
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| Home: |
New Haven, Connecticut, USA
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I
adopted Charlie from the New York ASPCA in October 2001, when she was
about a year old. I was immediately drawn to her unusual markings-her
"eyepatch," the mushroom-shaped pattern on the top of her head, her calico
tail that looked like it belonged to a different cat. She had been called
Diamond by the shelter staff, but that seemed too generic of a name for her
unique and quirky personality. So I named her Charlie-in part because she
reminded me of the cat I had grown up with, who was named Chuck; in part
because, well, the name just seemed to suit her. She had a madcap, impish
spirit, like Charlie Chaplin; yet she also somehow conjured the grace and
classic elegance of the name Charlotte.
For the first several weeks, Charlie hid in my bedroom closet, leaving only
to eat and use the litter box. When I tried to pet her, she ran. Then one
day, as I lay on my bed reading, she suddenly jumped up and settled in by
my side, purring. And she never left. From that day on, she followed me
like a little white shadow, sprawling out next to (or on) my laptop as I
worked, meowing at the bathroom door when I took showers, sleeping in my
bed at night (either with her head on the pillow, like a person, or laying
across my own head-I would often wake up to find my face smothered with
soft white fur).
To enumerate all the reasons why Charlie was special would require dozens
of pages, so I will list just a few of my favorites. Chattering all the
time, she had an astonishingly large vocabulary; her frequent meowing,
combined with the triangular shape of her face, makes me wonder if she was
part Siamese. She loved fruits and vegetables, especially broccoli, peas,
cantaloupe, and strawberries. (I first discovered this when she very
delicately and deliberately reached a paw into a Chinese food container and
fished out a spear of broccoli.) She liked to sleep on her back, often
against the wall, with her paws tucked under her chin. She had two favorite
stuffed animals, a big Eeyore (which she would knead and cuddle for hours
on end) and a little orange octopus. She was my best friend and faithful
sidekick through seven apartments in three cities, a career change,
graduate school, a marriage, a divorce, and the writing of my first book.
After a lifetime of good health, Charlie suddenly stopped eating in
mid-February. X-rays revealed a large tumor in her abdomen, which, during
the next two weeks, grew aggressively and metastasized to her lungs. By the
time she manifested symptoms of her cancer, it was too advanced, and she
was too weak, for treatments such as chemotherapy. On March 11, 2013, I
stroked her head and sang to her (I admit that it was the "Soft Kitty" song
from the TV show The Big Bang Theory) as my vet gave her the shot that
gently, peacefully ended her suffering.
It is as if, my whole life, I had carried around a tiny, Charlie-shaped
hole in my heart that I only knew was there once she filled it. I will miss
her profoundly, but I am so grateful to have shared twelve years of my life with her.
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