In Which I Mourn the Loss of a Great Cat

Wednesday night is girl’s night in the Keem-Dana household.  My sister Kari came over, bringing a tiny addition to our normal Wednesday activities, my nephew Josh.  Eric is in the Caribbean at his sister’s wedding so boy’s night was postponed.  I was a little worried over how Josh would react to watching two episodes of America’s Next Top Model but, other than a little grumbling, he started playing with Legos and worshipping Keem with every molecule of his body (she’s his girlfriend.  First she steals my cat and then she moves in on my nephew.  Can’t trust her with men at all.  Sheesh).

While we were watching ATNM, Kari broke the news.  My sister’s cat, Sebastian, has left the building.  He had been diagnosed with a malignant tumor on his jaw a few months back and Kari had been told he probably only had a few weeks left.  It was decided that as long as he was still comfortable and not in severe pain, they would make his last weeks enjoyable.  He was fed the finest soft foods and then he rallied.  He entered his 2nd childhood and became Mr. Playful and would frolic around quite like a kitten on crack. 

Unfortunately, on Monday, the tumor had become abcessed (or something.  Apparently there was pus involved.  I may have put my fingers in my ears and said “I can’t hear you!” at that time) and he was in severe pain.  The decision was made to let him go to the big kitty farm in the sky* so he could be at peace.

*Yes.  I do believe that beloved pets do go to Heaven and we get to spend eternity with them.  Also, when I want to annoy Keem (which is often), I tell her we should talk about the farm we’re going to have where we will raise cats.  This will be after we win the lottery, of course, and can rescue many, many cats and let them frolic around the farm.  There will possibly be puppies** as well.  Perhaps a cow for providing the kittens with milk.  Some attractive farm hands.  Okay, many attractive farm hands***.

**All cats and dogs are kittens and puppies to me.  Full grown German Shepherds are “Big puppies!”  I admit to usually being a 4 year old trapped in a 42 year old’s body.  Sometimes I’m 12.  But mainly 4. 

***Okay, sometimes I’m also a 42 year old with a great appreciation for the male form.

Good night, Sweet Sebastian.  Parting is such sweet sorrow.


This is a picture of Kari and Sebastian putting together the Batman Lego set I got for Josh for his birthday.  Josh and Kari are obsessed with Legos and I should seriously look into buying stock in the company.  Keem and my affectionate nickname for Sebastian was demon cat and I have decided that Kalli is Sebastian’s demon spawn since she has many of his annoying habits (meowing loudly in the middle of the night, trying to eat Eddy’s head).  Apparently she got one of his good ones because Wednesday, she was sprawled on the floor next to Josh, watching him play.  So this picture makes me happy in a bittersweet way.  The Lego torch has been passed on. 

Sebastian was a great cat and while I miss him, I am happy for knowing him and knowing that he’s not in pain anymore.

In which I cross the line separating me from somewhat sane cat owner to Crazy Cat Lady

Kalli and Eddy have very specific dining habits.  I should say Eddy does.  I’d term what Kalli wants to be more like specific demands. 

Once we wake up, we are expected to drop everything and race to the living room to provide the monster cat with dry treats.  Then we are allowed to shower and get ready for work.  Once I am done showering, Kalli is hovering around the bathroom, plaintively explaining that the meager treats I gave her were not enough to let a tiny, starving kitten survive and I should really feed her more. 

This continues until I’m dressed and then Kalli makes a beeline to the kitchen, wanting her wet food.   Mew, mew, incessant mew.  Let me climb onto the counter and eat from the can because “Oh my God, you people never feed me!”  Wet food is taken away and placed on the other counter which she rarely climbs on.  If we do not distract Eddy and Kalli with the wet food as we’re leaving, they run out into the hallway and there is chaos.  Utter, complete, extremely chaotic chaos.

I go to my computer, check bloglines, look at a few comics, hit Bacefook and play some Wafia Mars while I wait for Keem to be ready to leave for work.  I also tell Kalli repeatedly to “Shut it!”  This is all normal.  Part of the every day routine.  Sane cat owner.

Until it’s time to leave and Eddy has not come into the kitchen.  Kalli is having a hissy fit, wanting her food right NOW! but Eddy is MIA.  Sometimes he gets a little distracted by whatever deep kitty thoughts he is thinking and doesn’t hear us.  So I go into Keem’s bedroom and he’s lying on her bed, on his pink floofy blanket.  “C’mon, baby, it’s time to eat.”  Nothing.  He stares at me blankly.  I tell Keem to call him, he will typically respond to her.  She does and there is still nothing.  He cannot be persuaded to move.

Finally, as Kalli’s cries reach crescendo pitch, I say “Maybe I should just bring him his breakfast.”  Keem agrees.

And this is where the line was crossed.  I served my cat breakfast in bed.  No one will ever take me seriously again.