I was her person. A decade later, missing my little Angel

How can an empty water bowl choke you up?

That’s what I asked myself 10 years ago this week, although I knew the answer. That was Angel’s bowl, one that she used to lap up water, and one that she would never use again.

My sweet little cat Angel died on Monday, May 23, 2016. Her kidneys failed, which is the leading cause of death for older cats. Although I still referred to her as my baby cat, and as a cute little kitty, she was 16.

Angel lived a good, long life. I enjoyed being her person, and I am pretty sure she liked being my cat.

She came into my life in Montana in the spring of 2000. My stepdaughter Amy said the two cats we had were not enough; they were close to her mom and me, she said, and she wanted a third one in the house.

Jill was wary of adding a third cat to the roster, so she thought she set an impossible task. Find a white kitty with blue eyes and we’ll consider it, she told Amy.

A few days later, as I changed into umpiring clothes to work some games at the start of the season, Amy and a friend brought an incredibly small and cute little white and brown kitty to our home.

It had blue eyes that sparkled across the room. Jill was holding the kitty closely, but said she was undecided if we should keep it. Amy and her friend left, and I had to head to the ballfields.

I knew that Jill would quickly fall in love with this kitten. Sure enough, when I returned home that night, I was told that we just HAD to keep her.

I agreed, and Angel, as we named her — in keeping with the g-friendly names for our other two cats, Magic and Sage — quickly became part of the family. She loved to stand atop my chest and meow while looking me in the eyes.

Within three years, our marriage came to the end of the road. Jill decided she didn’t want any of the cats, and we found a wonderful woman who adopted Magic and Sage, a pair of jet-black cats who were close pals.

But Angel, I said, would come with me.

And so she did for the next 13 years. I moved repeatedly, taking newspaper jobs in several states, and she was at my side the entire time.

She was a playful cat, fond of leaping about, but also happy to snooze on the floor, on a chair, couch or bed, or, as was often the case, on me. She was my loyal little friend.

Angel was also an excellent judge of people. After a few years, I realized the people she avoided, the ones she hid from under a table or ran to another room when they came in, were not to be trusted. She knew, even when I didn’t.

Angel was born outside and she loved to go out, crunching through leaves or staring at birds and squirrels. Once, in Mankato, Minn., a bulldog spotted her and raced toward her.

Angel, all 5 pounds of her, reared up and prepared for the battle. Luckily, I scooped her up and the dog’s owner was able to get it under control before any mayhem ensued.

Even though I kept a very close eye on her — my friend Andy referred to me as a “Jewish mother” around my cat — she did get away a time or two. It was always frightening when such a small, curious cat wandered off, but I either found her or she returned.

Angel had always been remarkably healthy until late in 2015.

A few times, as I watched her lay still and quiet, her beautiful fur mussed and messy, uninterested in eating or drinking, I thought it was the end for Angel. I was unsure if she would make it through the day.

She was limping and her right hip seemed to be failing. I was tempted to take her in to the vet for the last time, and some friends advised me that was the best option.

But I decided to keep trying. We went to the vet and Angel was given an intravenous infusion of liquids. Blood tests were given. The first sign of good news: She ate some food while waiting for me to come pick her up.

She still seemed weak. I brought home chicken for lunch and offered her a taste. She ate several bites. I was encouraged.

I discarded the special food I was urged to feed her — she didn’t care for it — and switched to chicken and turkey. In addition, I placed water all over the house, urging her to drink more.

Soon, she was moving better and better and was back to bouncing around the house, jumping on and off the bed, couch and chairs. She seemed completely recovered.

But she grew ill again after a few months. Once again, an IV perked her up and she was back to almost normal. But she was a little weaker, a little slower, and never regained most of the weight she had lost.

Soon, the same problem reared its ugly head. This time, a trip to the vet didn’t help. Angel’s time had come.

It was sad to see such a lively little animal lose so much weight and become so weak. She lost interest in food, and by her last day refused to drink.

I was struggling with her departure, but she knew it was time to go. Finally, on a warm afternoon, Angel became exactly that.

I didn’t have to fill the food or water bowls anymore, but I sure would like to do so. I miss my little kitty Angel, and I guess I always will.

Fourth-generation South Dakotan Tom Lawrence has written for several newspapers and websites in South Dakota and other states for four decades. He has contributed to The New York Times, NPR, The London Telegraph, The Daily Beast and other media outlets. Do not republish without permission.

Photo: Tom Lawrence

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