Remembering a family friend

It's never easy. As many people have observed over the years, losing a beloved pet is like losing a family member. You lose not only a companion but also part of yourself. We lost our cat, Charlotte, this week to an aggressive form of bone cancer. She went quickly on Sunday night after battling the illness for at least a few months.

Charlotte, for those who don't know, was an incredibly mellow and docile cat, one that would let even strangers pick her up every which way or give her long belly rubs. She was comfortable with people, dogs, and even change. Only vacuum cleaners got her attention.

She was a part of our family for fourteen years. During that time, she lived in five homes in three states and gave us enough memories to last a lifetime. In Alabama, where we let her run free, she once confronted an armadillo in our backyard and stood her ground. In 2015, in the same location, Charlotte climbed into the engine bay of my Nissan Frontier pickup and went for a seven-mile highway ride to the market. (She emerged shaken but unharmed from the harrowing experience.) In Nevada, she was a house cat and a never-ending source of amusement.

We noticed Charlotte's decline late this spring and took steps to accommodate it, but we merely prolonged the inevitable. As many pet owners know, old age is one thing, terminal illness is another.

In her last week, she ate little, drank little, and barely moved. And yet, she did her best to remind us that she was still around, still visible, and still a part of the family. On Saturday night, hours before she died, she did what she had done for years. Moving with a limp, she climbed two flights of stairs, entered my room as I worked, and plopped onto her side. She signaled her interest in getting one last belly rub.

I gave her the rub and, with my wife, Cheryl, gave her comfort the next evening when she finally passed away. Like so many others, I said goodbye to a pet that is now just a memory.