Ode to Feliz
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I thought I was ready. I’d made the appointment. I’d cuddled on the couch with her and taken some last photos. And I’d explained to our kids that our cat was very old, a grandma kitty, and she wasn’t going to be with us much longer.
In her final act of kindness my sweet cat of almost 17 years spared us the hardship of putting her down and died at home Sept. 16. She died on her own terms.
Kidney failure, we were told, is a common cause of death in older cats.
Feliz was one of the sweetest Christmas presents I ever got. She was a tiny little thing with big green eyes, black, grey and white fur and some of the prettiest markings I’ve ever seen on a cat. If you put your hand on top of her little head and spread your fingers out as you petted her down her back, your fingers would trace 5 perfect black lines – one that went straight down her spine and two on either side. Grey fur surrounded the black lines and covered her ears and tail – the rest of her was white. She came with a little red bow, a bell and a cold.
She was sneezing regularly and running a fever when I brought her to the vet. A little medicine, some cottage cheese and a good dose of love soon perked her right up.
As she was a Christmas gift, from my mother, and I a Spanish student, I decided she should be named Feliz Navidad. (Merry Christmas in Spanish. Though Feliz actually translates more aptly to “happy.”)
Christmas or not, I’d regularly sing the song “Feliz Navidad” to her.
When she was still just a kitten, I remember her sleeping like a person under the covers next to me with her head poking out. After that she graduated to sleeping on my head. From there she slept on the foot of the bed, the couch, the window sill or wherever else was warm and nearby. Sometimes when I’d be working late on a paper for college she’d curl up on top of my computer monitor. (One of the old giant box-shaped ones that felt like it weighed 50 pounds.)
If she wasn’t sleeping she’d stretch across the top of it and twitch her tail back and forth – letting me know she was there and somewhat annoyed by the lack of attention.
But she wasn’t an overly demanding cat. Just a loving little creature who was always close by.
She even traveled with us to visit my husband, then boyfriend’s, family in Oregon. We’d put her little carrier in the backseat with the air conditioner pointed towards it. She’d curl right up and go to sleep. When we’d stop at a rest stop, she’d stop too. We’d put a leash on her and bring her to the cat box we’d put in the trunk of the car. Fellow travelers often gave us curious looks.
She was extremely trusting. In her younger years, if supported under her shoulders and hips, head skyward, she would take the opportunity to stretch as far as she could - arching into the shape of a half circle. Like most of us I suspect, she relished a good stretch.
Feliz was also an excellent communicator. She seemed to say “hi” with a “myeh” whenever anyone made eye contact with her upon entering a room. She could also be quite sassy and would “myeh, myeh, myeh” when she was told to get down off of a table or countertop. Family and friends would invariably comment on her habit of “talking” to people. They’d never heard a more vocal cat.
Feliz slept more and more over the years. One of her favorite places to curl up was on my lap – especially if I was pregnant. She didn’t even mind the playful kicks from my babes in utero. And after the kids were born she demonstrated her true colors. A kinder cat to babies never lived. She was patient with all of our children – even when caught in the firm grasp of an enthusiastic toddler. Rather than hiss or bite or scratch she simply meowed for help. (Which my husband and I quickly provided.)
Feliz taught me much over the years. Like how to enjoy the little things - sunshine through the window, snuggling on a couch, patience, friendship and unwavering loyalty.
Though I’d reconciled myself to the fact that it was best for Feliz and that she’d soon be gone, I still feel heavily the void of her presence. Our house, indeed our lives, are a little emptier without her.
I take comfort in the fact that she’s no longer suffering and that we have many years of memories. Nearly 17. Thank you, Feliz.
