The choice was between a white kitten and an orange kitten. I was going through a Garfield phase so the agreement was that I got to pick the orange kitten and my sister could pick her name. It was the late summer of 1996. I was starting a new high school, which led me down the road and eventually right out of the province. We took the kitten home and even though my sister did choose a name, we had branded the cat as simply Kitty, and Kitty she would stay.
It was an appropriate name for her though. Kitty was a cat’s cat, a quiet observer who would watch us from high perches atop cupboards and window ledges. She was a long sleeper, migrating between favourite spots including, in her last troubled summer, in the middle of the kitchen floor. She was aloof as a cat should be, giving spectacular side-eye to anyone who offered affection she wasn’t interested in receiving.
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For two decades, she was our furry presence. I said goodbye to her scores of times, in recent years I assumed each one would be my last, that the little ginger girl couldn’t keep trucking along. But she did and in these last months seemed to be a different cat, a teenager again we’d joke, not the human equivalent of 93 that she really was. When I’d scoop up the couple of pounds that Kitty was she’d put her front paws in the crook of my elbow and settle in for scratches and even crawled onto our laps once or twice. She’d never settle though, she was still shades of her cool self, the cat who kept our secrets, the cat who saw us.
When winter came she moved out of the kitchen and into the living room, nestling into the couch for her day-long sleeps and her nightly brushings. She’d find a spot near her food dish but still in my sight line to glare me into giving her dinner. I happily did her bidding, until no food or water could interest her and she took up residence on the couch and we knew our little observer was done. We’ll find ginger fur for weeks and be jarred by the empty spots where her litter boxes and food dish were because only the walls watch us now, only the furniture keeps our secrets.