Yesterday we said goodbye to our beloved kitty, Wrangler. I am now a writer without a kitty.
We adopted her in January 2012 — her name was an homage to the Grand Canyon Mule Trip our family took in late 2011.
I have almost always had a lap cat. (I paid tribute to Krystal here.) In the rule book for writers, #32 is “Have a cat.” Wrangler was not a lap cat, at least not MY lap. Instead she bonded with my husband, Doug.
She was a rescue who came from West Virginia. She had kittens with her when she was brought to a shelter. The kittens were adopted quickly and we were drawn to the mother — who we thought was a young mother. It turned out she wasn’t all that young, just stunted in growth. We never did have a good sense of her age. Different vets said different things.
Wrangler was peach and gray with a white chest and paws, and green eyes. She never completely let go of her feral ways. She loved being outdoors and had free rein of this kingdom.
In May she was diagnosed with diabetes. Doug had to inject her with insulin twice a day. She did pretty well although she became terribly skinny. Her mood was good and she was lively.
Then on Monday she didn’t eat, which was unusual, and she couldn’t keep water down, either. She became very dehydrated and could no longer walk properly. I imagine there were further interventions we could have taken, but after keeping a vigil with her on Tuesday night, Doug and I knew it was time to let her go without pain. We were grateful for a mercifully quick decline.
We buried her under the fig tree in our yard and I quoted Micah 4:4 as we covered her.
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