Remembering Streak

It's been exactly a year to the day since I had to say goodbye and put my beloved Streak to rest. The whole thing took place suddenly last August 8th, a Saturday morning when we brought 20-year old Streak into the vet for blood work. She had been having a host of symptoms and appeared to be generally not feeling well - she had slowed down a lot and was looking OLD. I sensed that something was really wrong. The vet examined her and then told us (as gently as he could) that her organs were failing and the ethical thing to do was to put her down. He said that she was definitely in pain and it would only get worse the longer we waited.

Faced with the magnitude of this information, and the realization that a difficult decision was imminent, my mind raced back over the last 20 years, two thirds of my life. I saw Streak as a fluffy kitten, remembering my excitement and pride on a balmy July night that as a 10-year old, I was going to be responsible for someone else. I recalled her strange quirks that made me smile on a daily basis, crying into her soft fur during times of uncertainty (something she would never allow another person to do), the way that just looking at her could calm me down, and the fulfillment I got from feeding her, loving her and watching her thrive into old age. Those times I wanted to retreat from others, I was grateful to have her in the corner of my room, just content to co-exist. She taught me as a young girl, then an older girl, then a woman what it means to nurture. She was my sidekick in Boston on that day in 2001 that Dylan (my friend from work) first came over and met my 13-year old cat. She watched with her suspicious green eyes as he turned into more than a friend, as the two of us became inseparable, as we moved across the country together, married and started a family. She knew me before my world solidified. All of this raced through my head, along with the fact that I had woken up that morning thinking that she would come home with me. Thinking that we would cram her back in her carrier and she would howl the whole way home, and then enjoy some of our leftover salmon at lunch.

The vet left the room for a few minutes so we could think and breathe. I didn't even need to talk to Dylan, I could see from the sad, kind look in his eyes that he agreed with me - we should do it now. We loved her too much to let her ailments linger. Moments later, his face and the room became blurry from the big tears that welled up in my 10-year-old-girl eyes. I regained my 30-year-old composure for the paperwork, the shaving of Streak's forearm, the shot to tranquilize her, then the shot to stop her heart. Dylan and Connor and I watched together in respectful silence as the life left her eyes and the pain faded out of her frail body.

I think about her every day. Each week I pick out fresh flowers and place them next to her framed photo, letting memories of our time together wash gently over me for a few minutes. Taking this time to fully focus on remembering is something that keeps her from fading away. Sometimes I can still hear her pitter-patter footsteps coming around the bend of the hallway. I am pretty sure she is going to be "with me" for good. Streak possessed a certain poise, confidence and grace that I've never seen before in another living thing. Those traits were with her until the very end, and I am left now with her vivid and beautiful memory nestled in the corner of my heart.