WhiteNoise_85
Goodbye Nina Bean
I had to say goodbye to my best friend yesterday and it's eating me alive today. Nina was diagnosed with chronic renal failure 15 months ago, and despite our best efforts, we could only slow down the inevitable. She had been making progress and was back to her happy-go-lucky self, and then rapidly declined over the weekend to the point that she needed round-the-clock care. I had to make one of the hardest choices I've ever made, and while I realize it was the "right" choice, I still can't find comfort in it.
I sat in the vet's room, hugging Nina and telling her how much I loved her before letting her go. My arms didn't want to stop hugging her, my mind just wanted to bargain with keeping her here for longer, I just wasn't ready, but unfortunately, she was.
I adopted Nina 6 years ago when she was left at a local kitty and doggy daycare, where one of my friends at the time worked. Nina's former owner was in the army, was about to be stationed overseas, and could find no one to take her. I had just moved out on my own and had been talking about how I wanted a cat, so I went to visit my friend one afternoon and saw Nina. This little white powder puff of a cat with sapphire blue eyes was staring back at me affectionately through the glass walls of the kennel. It was just love at first sight and it was immediately decided that she was to be my cat.
The first night she stayed with us, she just seemed so happy to be in a home again. She had been in the kennel for months at that point and was ecstatic to have a place of her own. Nina immediately jumped up on my bed like she owned the place, and for the past 6 years, she pretty much did.
She was a tiny little peanut of a cat, but an absolute diva with a big personality. She had "rules" that she expected her humans, as well as other cats to follow, and my boyfriend and I would jokingly refer to her as "the mediator." If the other cats fought, she would be right there to split them up, if someone was over our house and raising their voice, she would come bursting into the room and "nom" (never bite) them to make them quiet. She would occasionally get grumpy and growl when she felt someone was acting insolent, but only between purrs. Holding her was okay, but never on the couch. If someone was sad or crying, she would be the first one on the scene to offer commiserating purrs, gentle headbutts, and a lick to the forehead. When I had the flu, she watched over me and tried to make me feel better by leaning her head into mine for hours on end.
She loved wearing pretty collars, and I would often find her checking herself out in my vanity mirror when we'd buy her a new accessory, lol. She liked to be sung to, appreciated music (classical and rock were her favorite) and watching TV, came when called, and would usually answer people back with a soft meow and a puff of a purr when spoken to. She also loved having her photo taken, or probably just the attention that went with it. I couldn't get my camera out without her walking into my line of sight and sitting demurely in my way.
This was the first morning I've spent without my buddy and I'm in agony right now. Nina would usually wait patiently for me to wake up, next to my bed or on my nightstand, meow happily as my feet hit the floor, and then follow me around the house, soliciting cuddles and attention as I did my morning routine. Heck, being on the computer without her sitting right here next to my keyboard is just a foreign concept to me. She was just so much a part of my life, and was always in close proximity to "oversee" what I was doing.
I have, and have had other cats, and while I love them dearly, there was something about Nina that made her different. She was my cat, and I don't think I've ever bonded as closely to another pet before. I keep expecting to round the corner and see her waiting for me. The uncontrollable crying, and realization that I'll never see her again keeps hitting me in waves. I find myself instinctually seeking her out for comfort, like I normally would when I'm sad, but of course she's not here.
When we got the diagnosis that Nina had CRF last year, it killed me. I was just blindsided, because my prior cats were long-lived at 15+ years and she was still so young. I thought we were going to lose her then, I kept hoping that she'd make it a month, at least for my birthday (I was fortunate that she stayed for two of them), but once she started to perk up with treatment, I guess I just sort of had forgotten that she was sick.
She still played, still bossed the other cats around, still greeted us at the door every day. Other than the treatments, which gradually became routine, it was like nothing had changed. She was still my Nina. Watching the light fade from her eyes and knowing that I'll never see her again is just something I can't reconcile right now, and I wish I had known this was our last month together, or I would have made more of an effort to cherish the time we had before she started to slip away.
My boyfriend is just as shattered as I am right now. We moved in together the same week I got Nina, and she meant just as much to him as she did to me. He wasn't allowed to keep any non-aquarium pets when he was growing up, so Nina was his first companion animal and he adored her. My male cat, Noisy, is also crushed. He keeps going back to sleep in Nina's kitty bed and has been searching for her in all her regular hangouts, to no avail. She was here before him, and despite the fact that Nina merely tolerated Noisy's spastic behavior on the best of days, she was such a constant in his life and he was always trying to get her attention. I just feel so bad about his confusion and the fact that I can't make him understand what happened to her.
I go to pick up Nina's ashes on Friday. I keep looking for a nice urn, but I can't find anything that speaks for her. Everything seems either too cheesy or morbid, and I want something durable that represents her and how much she meant to us.
Goodbye Nina Bean, my Nina-Belle, and thank you for being such a good kitty and a loving friend. You were the best cat I've ever had; truly one in a million, and the empty space you left in my heart is going to take a long time to fill.
Goodbye Nina Bean
I had to say goodbye to my best friend yesterday and it's eating me alive today. Nina was diagnosed with chronic renal failure 15 months ago, and despite our best efforts, we could only slow down the inevitable. She had been making progress and was back to her happy-go-lucky self, and then rapidly declined over the weekend to the point that she needed round-the-clock care. I had to make one of the hardest choices I've ever made, and while I realize it was the "right" choice, I still can't find comfort in it.
I sat in the vet's room, hugging Nina and telling her how much I loved her before letting her go. My arms didn't want to stop hugging her, my mind just wanted to bargain with keeping her here for longer, I just wasn't ready, but unfortunately, she was.
I adopted Nina 6 years ago when she was left at a local kitty and doggy daycare, where one of my friends at the time worked. Nina's former owner was in the army, was about to be stationed overseas, and could find no one to take her. I had just moved out on my own and had been talking about how I wanted a cat, so I went to visit my friend one afternoon and saw Nina. This little white powder puff of a cat with sapphire blue eyes was staring back at me affectionately through the glass walls of the kennel. It was just love at first sight and it was immediately decided that she was to be my cat.
The first night she stayed with us, she just seemed so happy to be in a home again. She had been in the kennel for months at that point and was ecstatic to have a place of her own. Nina immediately jumped up on my bed like she owned the place, and for the past 6 years, she pretty much did.
She was a tiny little peanut of a cat, but an absolute diva with a big personality. She had "rules" that she expected her humans, as well as other cats to follow, and my boyfriend and I would jokingly refer to her as "the mediator." If the other cats fought, she would be right there to split them up, if someone was over our house and raising their voice, she would come bursting into the room and "nom" (never bite) them to make them quiet. She would occasionally get grumpy and growl when she felt someone was acting insolent, but only between purrs. Holding her was okay, but never on the couch. If someone was sad or crying, she would be the first one on the scene to offer commiserating purrs, gentle headbutts, and a lick to the forehead. When I had the flu, she watched over me and tried to make me feel better by leaning her head into mine for hours on end.
She loved wearing pretty collars, and I would often find her checking herself out in my vanity mirror when we'd buy her a new accessory, lol. She liked to be sung to, appreciated music (classical and rock were her favorite) and watching TV, came when called, and would usually answer people back with a soft meow and a puff of a purr when spoken to. She also loved having her photo taken, or probably just the attention that went with it. I couldn't get my camera out without her walking into my line of sight and sitting demurely in my way.
This was the first morning I've spent without my buddy and I'm in agony right now. Nina would usually wait patiently for me to wake up, next to my bed or on my nightstand, meow happily as my feet hit the floor, and then follow me around the house, soliciting cuddles and attention as I did my morning routine. Heck, being on the computer without her sitting right here next to my keyboard is just a foreign concept to me. She was just so much a part of my life, and was always in close proximity to "oversee" what I was doing.
I have, and have had other cats, and while I love them dearly, there was something about Nina that made her different. She was my cat, and I don't think I've ever bonded as closely to another pet before. I keep expecting to round the corner and see her waiting for me. The uncontrollable crying, and realization that I'll never see her again keeps hitting me in waves. I find myself instinctually seeking her out for comfort, like I normally would when I'm sad, but of course she's not here.
When we got the diagnosis that Nina had CRF last year, it killed me. I was just blindsided, because my prior cats were long-lived at 15+ years and she was still so young. I thought we were going to lose her then, I kept hoping that she'd make it a month, at least for my birthday (I was fortunate that she stayed for two of them), but once she started to perk up with treatment, I guess I just sort of had forgotten that she was sick.
She still played, still bossed the other cats around, still greeted us at the door every day. Other than the treatments, which gradually became routine, it was like nothing had changed. She was still my Nina. Watching the light fade from her eyes and knowing that I'll never see her again is just something I can't reconcile right now, and I wish I had known this was our last month together, or I would have made more of an effort to cherish the time we had before she started to slip away.
My boyfriend is just as shattered as I am right now. We moved in together the same week I got Nina, and she meant just as much to him as she did to me. He wasn't allowed to keep any non-aquarium pets when he was growing up, so Nina was his first companion animal and he adored her. My male cat, Noisy, is also crushed. He keeps going back to sleep in Nina's kitty bed and has been searching for her in all her regular hangouts, to no avail. She was here before him, and despite the fact that Nina merely tolerated Noisy's spastic behavior on the best of days, she was such a constant in his life and he was always trying to get her attention. I just feel so bad about his confusion and the fact that I can't make him understand what happened to her.
I go to pick up Nina's ashes on Friday. I keep looking for a nice urn, but I can't find anything that speaks for her. Everything seems either too cheesy or morbid, and I want something durable that represents her and how much she meant to us.
Goodbye Nina Bean, my Nina-Belle, and thank you for being such a good kitty and a loving friend. You were the best cat I've ever had; truly one in a million, and the empty space you left in my heart is going to take a long time to fill.