Anyway, I got Annie in 6th grade, nearly 12 years ago. She was the first girl kitty I'd ever had, and she was just so cute and delicate as a kitten. However, she meowed A LOT, and she would talk back to me! Typical girl. I named her Annie because I was reading "Anne of Green Gables" at the time, and I thought that she meowed as much as Anne talked in the book! She also had orange fur, which reminded me of little orphan Annie and her red hair.
We just about lost her when we spayed her and got her kitten shots at the same time. The vet said there was nothing more he could do. My mom came home on her breaks and force-fed her kitty mush and water. Eventually she turned a corner, and she was just fine after that!
When I was in the hospital for 61 days in 2002, she was left alone in the house, only getting a visitor (and her bowl refilled) a few times a week by my sister and bro-in-law. She became extremely timid and shy because of this point of isolation in her life. But when Bishop Ritchie went inside to check on the house, she hissed at him and stood her ground! She was protecting her territory!
I missed her so much while I was away from her for those two months. I actually cried more because of that (and homesickness) than because of pain while I was so sick and fighting for my life. As soon as I came home, the first thing I did was make myself comfortable with Annie in my lap. We were both totally content then.
The amazing thing was, after that she became truly MINE. When I had chemo, she knew when I needed her to cuddle with, and she was so lovey. She just had a 6th sense. She could be anywhere in the house and she'd know immediately when loneliness struck and I needed some companionship. Lonely, sick, sad... Annie was there by my side.
She developed some type of tumor around her left eye a year ago, which we had removed, but it grew back a couple of months ago. The last week in June, she stopped eating dry food and only nibbled on wet food. July 1st, she just stopped eating altogether. I tried to get some water down her, but I kind of felt like I was only prolonging her life. I spent lots of time at my mom's house, cuddling her and thanking her for being such a good kitty and companion. She was such a sweetheart. She was the most gentle, loving, tender cat I've ever had (and I've had quite a few felines in my lifetime).
I took her to the vet on July 5th and held her while he put her to sleep. "You have about 5 minutes before the sedative kicks in." I just cuddled her and talked to her, knowing very well she could still hear me. When he gave her the shot in her heart, I totally lost it. He checked her pupils, listened to her no-longer-beating heart with his stethascope, and pronounced her gone. I cried a little, but the days leading up to it were worse than the actual moment. I brought her home, curled her up into a ball, gave her some last loves, and wrapped her up in a towel. Charles had dug her grave before he left for work that day, and I placed her in it ever so gently. Covering her with dirt was one of the hardest things I've ever done. My little Annie Cat was really gone.
No more little paw reaching up to touch my arm, begging for food at the table. No more kneading and extreme purring. No one to share popcorn or waffles with. No one to put my mom's dog in her place! No more watching her chase the laser light or go crazy over catnip. No more explaining to company that we really do have cat, but she's just allergic to strangers (she was so shy!). No more talking back to me with a meow that had softened through the years.
Charles and I spent that evening looking up scriptures and quotes that suggest that we will see our beloved animals again after this life. They are just too much a part of our lives! They bring us happiness, contentment, and they teach us how to love and care for them in a special way because they are totally dependent on us. I know I will see her again.
I love you, Annie Bananie.
July 2011
Autumn 1999
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