Pumpkin

A woman, wearing a smile led Chris and I to a chilly, concrete room. Two platforms lined the wall and a cloth tower was in the center. Bowls of food and water were spread out on the ground. She told us to take our time. We were about to make an important decision.

She didn't stand out at first, in a bustling room full of felines meowing, eating and chasing. In this overrun, small-town shelter, that housed at least fifteen cats, she learned to keep her distance from the clowder. We joyfully played with kittens and fat, outgoing tabbies, unaware of her golden eyes, watching. Waiting. Hoping?

She must have decided we were decent people, because she drew attention to herself then, by jumping up on a platform, tail standing tall, a little curl at the end.

Her snubbed face was angular, and greasy, orange fur covered her lean, bony body. She reached out, touching Chris, all the time emitting a deep, guttural wheeze. He held her in his arms, and she rubbed her head against his beard. She bit down on his nose, just a love-bite, but it was clear she'd chosen her human.

We asked the woman this sweet, old girl's story. Her previous family moved, leaving her alone in the yard, abandoned. She'd been through several shelters and at this one for a few years. They named her Pumpkin Pie.

She adapted quickly to our home, finding herself a comfortable place on the back of our arm chair, and dutifully ignoring our dogs. She loved everyone, but no one more than Chris. Sleeping above his pillow at night, she laid one paw on his forehead. They cuddled on the couch and watched TV, or she rested in his lap while he worked from home. She lived in our home, brightening our lives for five years.

On her last day in our home, she spent most of her time sleeping in Chris's office, warmed by the sun pouring from his window. As day turned to night, we realized something didn't feel right. She came to us with some breathing problems, which she received care for, but we noticed her breath on this occasion was particularly strained. She panted heavily, and hardly moved from her place on the carpet.

We rushed her to the emergency vet's office one town over. Because they serviced a small city, they had limited supplies, but they did her best to care for our girl. The assistant held a large hose, pumping out air, to Pumpkin's face. They didn't have the equipment to do follow-up tests, or to keep her under observation. So she recommended a clinic an hour away. We got in our car and drove into the clear, winter night.

Chris wrapped her in a throw and held her all through the drive. The building was one of many in a strip mall, lit by orange-yellow streetlights. I called ahead, so a man waited for us inside. He put Pumpkin in an oxygen tank and asked to keep her overnight. He told us her oxygen-levels were dangerously low. She was in trouble.

The next day, he called to update us on her situation. He sounded certain about what ailed her, and our worst fears came true. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Her heart muscle was abnormally thick, and getting thicker all the time. It was unable to properly pump blood to the rest of her body. He also didn't think she would be well enough to make the trip back home because of the rise in elevation. He gave us the room to make a choice.

There are times when you know the right answer. You know what you should do, but it hurts too much to do it. I felt sick, my stomach full of knots. She remained unperturbed, curled warmly in the blanket we'd brought from home. She purred, patted Chris's hand and gazed lovingly into his eyes, wheezing noisily, as she always had.

Tears ran down his face and he said, "You're a good cat, Pumpkin. We'll just make you a giant oxygen tank, and live there together, forever."

When the vet returned, we weren't ready to say goodbye, but knew we needed to. We scratched between her ears, and gave her a kiss each. He pulled out the needle and told us it'd be quick. She sniffed his gloved hand when it came close, ears perked. He gave her the shot, and with barely a beat passing, she was gone. One second, full of curiosity, the next no longer with us.

The house still feels empty a year later. It's too quiet without her. Her ashes rest on a shelf in a carved wooden box, surrounded by polished rocks of white, pink and blue. Her picture hangs on the wall. She wasn't a beautiful cat by some people's standards, but to us, she was. She had more love to give than any animal I'd ever met. We wish we could have had her longer, but feel blessed for the time she gave us.