Lottie

I had planned to write about death this week, but of the celebrity variety--Warren Zevon, John Ritter and Johnny Cash passing in one week (the latter two on the same day, 9/11) was too concentrated a dose to let go by without comment.

But I don't feel much like talking about death right now. I don't feel like talking about much of anything, really. Not now that Lottie is gone.

Maybe someday I'll go through the blow-by-blow of what happened over the past weekend. Not this minute, though. This hurts too much for me to go into detail. But, when boiled down to its essence, the story is this: It looked like Lottie had a nasty case of diarrhea, but it turned out to be a bowel obstruction caused by a large growth in her abdomen; exploratory surgery on Sunday revealed that there was nothing that could be done for her and rather than make her suffer any more than she already had, I gave the surgeon permission to have her put to sleep (or, more accurately, not to let her wake up from the surgery).

This all happened in a short amount of time--just over a month from the day I noticed anything was wrong with Lottie to the day she died. The brevity of the situation doesn't make it easier to take.

Parents will tell you they love all their children equally, even when it's obvious that they have favorites. Pet owners will tell you the same thing about their dogs or cats or ferrets or whatever. But there is usually one more dear to them than the others. Their favorite. Their baby. Lottie was my baby.

I love Ms. Christopher to pieces and have been doing my best to be there for her these past few days--petting her, throwing rings from milk cartons past her head, getting her loaded on catnip, etc. She's been wandering La Casa del Terror, looking under couches, behind doors, in the litterpan, wherever for Lottie, her sister, her friend, her constant companion since leaving the womb ten years ago.

But as much as I love Christopher, Lottie was the one I was closest to. The more sociable one. The more intelligent one. The more intuitive one. Lottie picked up on my moods and would appear at my feet, rubbing against my legs, butting her head against my hand, looking up at me with eyes huge and bright and meowing as if to ask, "What's wrong, buddy? Why so sad? Anything I can do to help?"

As I sat in the lobby of the vet hospital, trying to occupy my mind with anything but the poking and prodding that was no doubt going on a few doors down the hall, one of the attendants brought Lottie out and gave her to me. "The doctor thought she'd be more comfortable out here with you," she said, straining not to drop Lottie on the floor as she handed the big girlie over. Lottie sprawled in my lap, butting her head against the cradle of my arm, purring loudly enough to feel through the leather jacket, looking up at me with those same intelligent eyes and meowing as best she could. The damn cat was dying, but there she was, comforting me because she could see, could feel, that I was sad. That made me cry that much harder.

But that's just how Lottie was.

Rest in peace, my Girlish Girl.

P.S...My thanks to everyone from all over--Chicago, Pittsburgh, Dallas, Orlando, Minneapolis--who either called or e-mailed condolences or expressions of sympathy and support. It really does help.