by W. Robert Reardon, 12 December 2000
In June 1982 we adopted a garage cat from the litter of a friend who thought his cat had been spayed. Tiny, black, fiesty, fleet of foot, and furry, this little critter dared me to adopt her if only I could catch her. I named her Nike after the running shoe.
For the next 18 1/2 years Nike was adorable one minute and a pain in the schnootz the next, asleep one minute and bounding across the room the next, quiet one minute and bellowing the next. A Mama's kitty, she would have nothing of strangers, men, pet sitters, and relatives. She would tolerate her Daddy if he was the only game in town.
Well, after 18 1/2 years Nike must be put to sleep today at 9:30 am. We opted for one last night together with her without any attempt to force medicine down her, any attempt to get her to eat her medicine drops disguised in a tiny mound of tuna fish. No, instead we just let her be quiet, safe, secure, cuddled wherever she wished, and we petted her and held her and even just looked at her. I suppose this is a kitty version of Hospice.
It is fitting that last night was the most beautiful full bright moon on a clear sky backdropped with Venus, Jupiter, and Saturn. A black cat must go out with the full moon. This morning the sun came up and out bright and early. It rained during the night. The moon provided light, the rain water, and the sun warmth, all the ingredients for life.
Nike lives on, not just in our memory, though she is there for all time, but somewhere where little cats go when their time on earth is up. Somewhere Nike is running, sleeping, bellowing, and exploring every nook and cranny. In her time on earth, she has touched two people, one of them an old curmudgeon who never had a cat in his life, with all the love and spirit a critter can bring. We'll miss you Nike but we wish you Godspeed to your new home.
Your Daddy, Robert