Adam and the Little Boys went to church while Abby and I chose to stay here with Violet; I knew that she didn't have much time left, and I couldn't bear the idea of her being alone while she passed on. I laid down on the floor with her for much of the morning as she slept a deep sleep, her chest rhythmically rising and falling, rising and falling to the beat of life. At one point, Abby got up and asked if I wanted her to take a picture. I said yes, so she did, and this wound up being the very last photo of my dear companion of 16 years.
I stood up to stretch shortly before the boys got home and turned on the TV. There wasn't much on, so I left it tuned to a random IndyCar race. The next few moments wound up being critical; the boys came inside, I got up to check on her and it seemed that her chest was no longer rising and falling, rising and falling with that rhythmic familiarity, so I asked Isaac to go get Adam. (Adam later told me that Isaac was near tears as he delivered the news.) Abby sat with us on the floor, hugging her knees and crying, as Adam stroked kitty's back and I alternately touched her paws and her soft, soft head.
She took a sharp breath, and then another about 20 seconds later. Her breaths grew further and further apart until finally, at about 12:40, she breathed in the very last one of all, a soft, contented little sigh. And she was gone.
We all cried. Abby and Isaac openly, Brady more begrudgingly; I found him hiding behind the couch in the living room trying to hide his tears. I told him it was okay to be sad and he tried to fight me as I lifted him to my chest, but he eventually gave in and cried into my shoulders.
Even though she went peacefully, it was so hard to watch her die. It pulled on the thread that keeps memories of Logan's passing sewn away in one of the quietest, furthest recesses of my mind. And it hurts. It just hurts.
I remember that I went to the Oakland SPCA in September of 2000 looking to adopt a kitten, but I saw Violet first. And she was unwell and a single little sneeze convinced me that she and I were meant to be together; that I was meant to be part of her healing process. I don't really know how old she was when she moved on today; 18, or even upwards of 20, maybe. I do know that we spent nearly 16 full years together. I know that she was my constant companion and roommate through four rental units and two houses. I know that she was completely my girl until I married Adam and she and I moved in with him; then I discovered her affinity for men. I know that she liked to be scratched under her chin and she loved pets like most cats do. I know that she wasn't exactly a big fan of young children, though she was never mean to or aggressive with them, even when they pulled on her tail or startled her with their enthusiastic 'oh, look, kitty!' glee.
I know that she was a good cat and a good friend. And I know that I was very blessed to have her for as long as I did, so though I'll miss having her with me, I'm thankful that I had her at all. And I'm hopeful that she's in Logan's lap, having her chin scratched right now.
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