Mitzi, A Love Story

There are too many cat stories on the Internet.

Mitzi was a kitten born with a problem, or she developed the problem as a young kitten. Her anus leaked. There's no delicate way to say that. When she jumped, she let out a spurt. When she sat down and relaxed, she leaked. Sometimes, while walking across the floor, Mitzi would leave a trail of little puddles — and sometimes not. She came to my cat rescue group, MAD Cats, from a hoarding situation. The rest of the kittens we rescued from that sixty plus cat situation were fine. Three vets treated her, to no effect.

Mitzi's previous foster caregiver had become exhausted caring for her; most likely she would have been euthanized as a hopeless case. Rose and I accepted an opportunity to work with her, and so Mitzi came into our home. Unlike her last situation, where Mitzi was confined to a single room, we had to give her the run of the house. Our 100+ year old house has few doors, and Mitzi did not respond well to being caged. That's one of the reasons she couldn't stay in her last foster home. You see, Mitzi can talk. Not quite like humans, but Mitzi definitely does more than just meow. When caged, she constantly chattered. Whenever she was interested in something, she would talk to us about it. We often wished we could understand what was happening in that kitty brain of hers while she's talking to us.

When I came downstairs in the mornings to our only bathroom, Mitzi would go into her cage, right outside the bathroom door, which was nearly always open, and hop up onto the top level of the cat tree. While I brushed my teeth she would talk to me. Then we would go into the kitchen where I prepared her remedy. We had exhausted all conventional medicine, and had taken Mitzi to a homeopathic vet. Each morning Rose or I would carefully mix a special brew, “The Remedy,” and feed three CCs to her through a syringe. Mitzi enjoyed sipping the mixture from the syringe. Part way through, she would gently push my hand away, take a break, then take my hand and draw it back to continue. Mitzi would watch me prepare The Remedy from her kitchen perch, chatting away. When I had filled the syringe, she would stop talking, grasp the edges of the perch, and be ready.

Mitzi was like our baby. She would curl up on Rose's lap, get wrapped up in a blanket, and go to sleep. When Rose was working on her column, Mitzi would sit on her desk to help edit. If she got too helpful, Rose would push her off. Mitzi would jump onto the nearby recliner and curl up. Sometimes she would watch Rose work, and other times she would go to sleep. Mitzi also liked to come into the living room where I had my computer and ham radio station. She would try to curl up on the desk, but it was slanted, making it impossible, so she would sit in the recliner where I rested my feet, occasionally playing with my toes. I kept a towel on my lap in anticipation of her jumping up. Its consequences were messy.

Mitzi would march around the house with the miniature lamb-akin we had given her in her mouth. She took it everywhere, even to bed. If she forgot it for a few minutes, she'd suddenly look around, then go find it.

In spite of the efforts of three vets, Mitzi never improved. The homeopathic vet had only said that any improvement would be very gradual. This was not encouraging. Constantly cleaning up after her was exhausting, but we loved her. I felt such a sweet and loving connection with her. But as magical as her presence was, it could not last.

Over the last weekend in January Mitzi wasn't herself. She slept more than usual. Our very active kitten seemed tired. “Mitzi is sick,” I told Rose. She knew it too. Mitzi was vomiting something up, or discharging it. We would find it on the rug. But mostly Mitzi slept. She would find a place near one of us, curl up and snooze, sometimes opening her eyes and purring. We had both spent hours searching the Internet for the key to Mitzi's cure. In the end, the week before we had found just the opposite: Feline Inflammatory Peritonitis. It matched Mitzi perfectly, and had no cure. It was time.

On Monday, 1 February, I called the vet, and made an appointment for later that day. Rose offered to drive her, but this was to be my task. Given the pandemic, I wasn't permitted inside. The tech took Mitzi in, gave her a sedative, and brought her back to me so we could be together for a few minutes while it worked. I opened the top of the carrier and stoked her head. She was the same old Mitzi, purring like an outboard, wanting to climb up to be with me. I gently pushed her back inside and stroked the top of her head. She purred, laying down as the sedative took effect. I stroked her back, then closed the top and gave the carrier back to the tech. That was it. I sat in the truck until I could regain enough composure to drive home.

On the way home my phone rang. It was a voice mail. “This is Dr. Jacobson from Culpeper Animal Hospital. Mitzi passed peacefully a few minutes ago. I'm sorry for your loss.”

Five days after she died I was sitting at the kitchen table with a partial view out the back door. A pair of black ears walked across the porch. Mitzi? Of course not. It was our black cat Sherlock. But for just a moment she had evoked a perfect image of Mitzi.

Mitzi was a kitten with a beautiful soul that could reach out and hold you. She still holds me.