The photo above is how I chose to remember my "furry adopted daughter" of 16 years, Diva Las Vegas Robinson. After a bout with an aggressive cancer that left her emaciated, I had her put to sleep on Halloween. The cat whose sursurration sounded like the lower register of a piano purred until she fell asleep in my arms for the last time.
I hadn't planned to adopt her on a rainy Ground Hog Day in 2008. My other cat, Tuffy (A.K.A. Tuff-Punk), and I moved into a Vacaville townhouse, and I thought he would want a feline friend. (The "fluffy, not fat" orange tabby dispelled that notion. Oh, well.) I went to a pet adoption event held by the Solano Friends of Animals in the Pet Food Express store in Benicia. The cat I had wanted to adopt, a female black American shorthair named Tashi, had already been adopted. I looked at other cats in their cages reaching out their paws in hopes of finding their permanent homes. One black-and-white tuxedo cat cowered in her cage with her wide jade eyes. When one of the pet rescue group's volunteers opened the cage and placed the cat named "Demi" in my arms, the feline felt limp. It was then that I decided to take her home.
When I walked in the door with a new cat carrier with the new cat, Tuffy yowled in protest and hissed at the interloper. I decided to drive back to Benicia in the storm and return "Demi." When I walked to the pet rescuers, one of them sent me back home with an admonition borrowed from "Project Runway's" Tim Gunn: "Make it work!"
I drove back to Vacaville, "Demi" meowing the entire return trip. When I entered, I went into the spare bedroom and opened the carrier door. "Demi" emerged from her temporary refuge, stretched, and head-butted and rubbed against me, purring loudly the entire time. Unfortunately, I had to keep her in the room, to which she loudly objected. Her cried prompted me to rename her "Diva" because she sounded like a demanding opera star.
Tuffy was not only unamused, but unforgiving. He hissed at her for weeks, hoping she would go away. Eventually, he adjusted to her presence.
As Diva adjusted to her new "furever" home, she became more loving with me and assertive with Tuffy, standing her ground when he would hiss at her. We settled into this rhythm until August 2013, when I had to have Tuffy put to sleep after a bout with kidney failure. A week later, I adopted another orange tabby, Lady Marmalade, who also bullied Diva. But Diva proved resilient, sometimes using her secret weapon -- her long claws. She was more a lover, not a fighter, though.
We moved twice since Marmie's adoption, first into a three-bedroom rental home in south Vacaville and into my current two-bedroom halfplex in Sacramento's Pocket-Greenhaven neighborhood. Both had adjusted to the moves.
Diva walked with confidence, which prompted me to add her middle name "Las Vegas" because she strutted like a showgirl with her front legs almost crossing each other and her tail in the air. She claimed my office chair as hers, along with a box filled with my bed linens for sleeping.
Earlier this year, Diva had a urinary tract infection, which a veterinarian treated with amoxicillin and ibuprofen for the pain. I didn't really think there was anything terribly wrong with her when she would sleep longer and eat less. Early in October, when I felt her ribs and hipbones, I contacted the vet for a regular appointment that was supposed to be the day before Thanksgiving.
Diva became weaker, and I relayed the information to my younger sister, who advised me to call the vet again for an emergency appointment. At first, I hesitated because I didn't want to put Diva to sleep yet. However, I didn't want her to suffer either. So, I called the veterinarian, and the advice nurse urged me to take Diva to the emergency room.
After an examination and blood text, a vet came into the examination room where I was awaiting word on my "Baby Grr." He told me that her white blood cell count was elevating and he believed she had cancer from the rapid weight loss. (She dropped nearly half her body weight to 6.6 pounds, her weight when I adopted her as a kitten.) He nixed my idea for taking Diva home, saying she would suffer. So, I reluctantly agreed to euthanasia.
I was taken into a room with two leather couches. Later, a veterinary technician dressed in a cat costume arrived with Diva wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket with a port sticking out from her front right paw. She gave us time alone for me to say goodbye. I told Diva that I loved her to the moon and back and I'm sorry I had failed her. I whispered that I was honored to have been her cat mom. Later, the vet entered, connected the port to a tube that had the "forever sedative," and put Diva to sleep.
I arrived home with an empty cat carrier, went into my bedroom, and cried myself to sleep with Lady Marmalade beside me.
Today, it's just the two of us. I am in a monthly pet loss support group and reading a book on pet loss grief. I'm trying to live my life with as much normalcy as possible, given the circumstances. I think Diva would have wanted it that way.
Diva had outlasted any pet I had either as a member of my family or alone. If I were to go to Heaven, I would hope to awake in a field with Diva resting on my shoulder and Tuffy and Marmie at my sides.
Diva, I will always love you.💓
Writing Diva
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