18 years ago, a very eager four-year-old me kicked excitedly
in the backseat. Where are we
going? Mom and dad smiled at each
other, some secret destination in mind.
We arrived at the Atlanta Humane Society. After much joking from my father, I was convinced I was
getting a fish. Lucky for me, they
had something slightly fluffier (and far less boring) in mind.
We open the door to a room full of kittens tucked away in
their cages. And I could have my
pick. Whichever I wanted. Now a
four-year-old’s over enthusiasm was enough to put the fear of God into
them. As an only child, my
parents thought I needed a pet to keep me a little less lonely. The situation might have seemed
hopeless until one shaky little kitten was put on the floor. Rather than clawing to anything it
could gets its hands on in protest, she walked right up to me. She was the one.
We went through the adoption process and it came down to name. My first suggestion was Spot, until mom
and dad gently noted that there was not a single spot on her. Fluffy? Too generic. I
looked around the room, clearly in need of inspiration. The Humane Society poster donned the
adjacent wall with a picture of a great big heart. Heart! I
exclaimed. My mind could not be
changed. “I love her, so her name
has to be Heart!” Well what
monster is going to deny the logic of a toddler? Heart it was.
They put her in her little box that said "I’m going home!" and that’s
exactly where we brought her.
(Though I do not think we ever called her by her actual
name.) Heart quickly be came Hearty, Hearty-girl, Heartskies, or the more creative
Scooby, Stoops, and Hearty-Pa-Tar-Tar.
From me forcing her to spend hours with me in the laundry
room playing “school” to dressing her up in the most stylish of doll fashions, Heart
was a trooper. One of her favorite
pastimes was letting me push her in baby doll strollers. Truly, her life was charmed. One of the things Hearty became most
known for (among anyone who would listen) was her love of playing fetch. We would notice my little watercolor
paintbrushes started to disappear.
And the culprit? One
mischevious baby panther. We
would let her stalk one of those
devilish paintbrushes, give it a toss and let her thunderbolt after it. Then she would prance back with her
kill in her mouth, hanging out like a long cigarette.
She was right at home atop of dad’s (or “Gampy” to her)
chest. He would snooze in the
recliner and she would settle on his belly, paws outstretched and knead his
neck like a ball of dough. Or the
way she would squeeze in beside Gammy in the armchair. No room? No problem.
She’ll make it. Or the way
she would let me lay my head on her and just purr away. She had an affinity for space heaters,
sunny spots on the carpet, dollops of whipped cream, and baskets that she
overflowed from.
The past year our once fat and happy cat wasn’t so fat
anymore. She didn’t go leaping in
the direction of paintbrushes. It
was understood. She was getting
older.
Every Christmas picture was like an “I Spy” book trying to find the
hiding cat among the ribbons and paper.
She smushed her body into a little basket shaped like a sled and would
let her head just hang over the side.
This Chrismas, there was no little silhouette sleeping under the tree. No lazy little body sprawled in front
of the space heater. We have an
empty sleigh basket. We have a piece of
ceramic with a tiny paw print.
One might say black cats aren’t very lucky, but I would
argue that a life of 18 years isn’t too bad, and she battled that tumor as best
as her little body could. If you are going to have a pet, you should love it. It should be part of the family. And Hearty-girl definitely was. If all dogs go to heaven, then I’m
quite certain that very special kitty cats do, too.
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