This is what she looked like on the Longmont Humane Society webpage, when I spotted her in December 2007. We had just lost all 3 of our pets -- my old cat Edward died in May, Kitty expired just before we went away for Thanksgiving, and our dear old dog Molly had to be put to sleep right after we got back. Pregnant with twins, you'd think I could have taken a break from animals for a while, but no, I immediately started yearning for more. So we went to the humane society to meet Whiskers.
When we met her she had been at the humane society for a long time, maybe close to a year. She'd been adopted at least once already, and then returned, for "being too needy." That should have warned us. It DID warn us. We should have paid attention to the warning. We didn't. We adopted not only Whiskers but also an enormous black cat called Pie, to be her friend. That didn't work out. Nor did anything else about Whiskers.
A little girl at the humane society, one of the volunteers, told me that Whiskers was her favorite cat. One of the paid workers got tearful when he packed her up (and not because she scratched him, which she did). At the time I thought that was a good sign. Later I thought those people probably loved her because they got to go home at night and leave Whiskers in a cage.
We took Whiskers and Pie home to our little house. We had been told that they were both indoor cats. After a few nights, Whiskers started demanding to go out. At night, always at night. We would say no, Whiskers, it isn't safe. Whiskers would scratch and whine. For hours. She was a very persistent cat. Finally we gave up and opened the dog doors so both cats could come and go.
They told us she was 6 years old. She was probably older. But at first she was a lively cat. Whiskers liked to play with toys, so we gave her all the toys that had belonged to my old cat Edward. Big mistake. Whiskers enjoyed bringing us these toys in the middle of the night, say 3 am. "Mrow," she would say, coming down the hallway. "Mrow. Mrow. MROW. MROWWWWWWW." Finally one of us would have to get up and take the toy away from her. Then she would go and get another.
After the babies were born in March 2008, both cats were a little put out, but they coped. Whiskers always liked to be near the twins. On one of her visits my sister devised a little song, to the tune of "Sisters": "Whiskers, Whiskers, was there ever such a beautiful kitty as Whiskers." (Sarcasm was involved.)
In November 2008 we went away for a day, just 8 hours or so, and when we got back something had happened to Whiskers. Maybe Pie had terrorized her. Maybe she'd had a stroke. She hid from us and wouldn't eat for days. She lost a lot of weight very quickly. We eventually took her to the vet and started her on a round of tests and hospitalizations. (Fortunately I had just received my end-of-year bonus.) We thought she was about to die.
Meanwhile, in February 2009 we moved to Ridgecrest. My sisters and I flew with the twins to Las Vegas and then rented a car, while a friend of ours drove my car (and Pie Bear), and Rocket Boy drove his car (and Whiskers) the thousand miles. On the way, Whiskers perked up a bit. Once she got to Ridgecrest, she perked up a lot. Of all of us, Whiskers liked Ridgecrest the most. She gained some weight and started being really irritating again.
In November 2009 Whiskers hit another low point and had to be hospitalized again. (Conveniently, I had just gotten my end-of-year bonus.) We brought her back to life and started giving her subcutaneous fluids every couple of days. Fortunately we knew how to do that, since our old cat Kitty had also needed them. I started getting really fed up with everything to do with Whiskers. "Stupid cat, stupid cat," I would say, and the babies would imitate me.
But I must say they were also quite fond of her. She spent most of her time in their room, slept there most nights. They called her "kiki" (their basic word for a kitty or cat) rather than trying to say Whiskers. Baby A liked to pick her up and carry her around. Of course Whiskers didn't enjoy that, but as she got weaker, there wasn't much she could do about it. "Put Whiskers down!" I would say, to no avail.
This spring Whiskers was hospitalized once again and once again brought back to life. Our new vet murmured something about "quality of life" and "needlessly prolonging the inevitable." But Rocket Boy wasn't ready to say goodbye, so we went on prolonging the inevitable. She liked to sit on his lap in the evenings as he worked at the computer. She still took an interest in things, including the new tortoises.
Whiskers' weight dropped below 4 pounds. We still, after all the tests, didn't really have a diagnosis. Maybe it was her kidneys, and maybe it wasn't. Her numbers weren't that bad. We took her off the special kidney food and started feeding her Stage 1 Gerber baby food chicken. On the nights she felt a little better she came padding down the hallway at 4 am with Green Knitted Mouse: "Mrow. Mrow. MROW. MROWWWWWWW."
When Rocket Boy got sick he stopped "watering" her and I neglected to pick up the slack until it was too late. Now Whiskers is no more.
When I took her body to the vet to have her cremated, the girl at the desk expressed her sympathy. She said, "Whiskers was famous around here." I didn't ask for what, there were so many possibilities -- for weighing 3 and a half pounds, for mrowing all the time, for repeatedly coming back to life. Whiskers lived with us for just a little over two and a half years, but we will not soon forget her.
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