A few days before I called the vet, Chelsea had what we thought was a seizure. I held her in my lap as she shook and I tearfully whispered into her ear how much I loved her. When the seizure ended and Nick offered her a can of tuna, she sat up and ate it, teetering on her frail legs. I was ecstatic. I thought she might be OK after all.
Then I remembered the expression on her face when I found her seizing on the bathroom floor, and I picked up the phone and called the vet.
The day before the vet came out we fed her nothing but canned tuna in an attempt to spoil the crap out of her. We laid her favorite towel out on the bed for her to sprawl on and pushed the litter box closer to the bed. Even the kitten was sympathetic and groomed Chelsea's dirty fur. With every lick, Chelsea teetered back and forth, uttering a wheezy purr.
The next morning, our house call vet rolled into the driveway. He calmly and expertly handled my cat and placed her on the countertop. The first injection was administered in her back leg and she yowled in protest, a drama queen until the very end. She was never very good at receiving shots. It made me chuckle and cry, all at once.
Then she vomited and lay dizzily on the table. Minutes passed and the vet administered the final injection. It felt like forever until she gave a long sigh and suddenly her eyes that were once full of expression quickly dulled. The vet took his $90 and left.
My father had left a message saying he'd dug a little grave for Chelsea on some property he owned nearby and fashioned a small wooden cross to mark her grave. Nick and I wrapped her limp body in her favorite snuggly orange towel and started down the road.
All that filled my head were memories of my beautiful cat:
Like when my mother, brother and I were at the animal shelter to pick out a cat. There were plenty of healthy ones but for some reason we chose the sick one sleeping in her litter box. She looked like she needed a good home.
Or how she would sometimes just go missing and we would find her in the oddest places, like the top shelf of a locked linen closet.
And how she used to curl up on top of us when we were sick.
And the way she sometimes used to sleep under our covers and we could come home from school to find her curled up in a ball under a quilt.
Sometimes she would knead our laps if we sat still for long enough and curl up contently. Her purring could be heard from the other room.
We walked down the hill to her waiting grave, where my father had left a little trowel to help cover her. We buried her in her orange towel and wrote all of her nicknames on her grave marker in black sharpie. It rained for the rest of the day.
I texted my brother to tell him what happened. "Chelsea's chillin' with the angels now," I said.
My brother asked where her body was. I told him it was at the old house in the yard.
"Keep the dog away from that hole!" he replied.
Chelsea was only an animal to some, but having her around was almost like growing up with a sister. My parents adopted her for my brother and I when we were kids to fill a void in our hearts, and she did all of that and more. I could always count on her to be there for me when I got home from school. All through my teenage years, I told her secrets that I never told anybody else. I brought her with me when I moved out of my parents' house and she was like a third room mate. Now that she is gone, I feel like a part of me is missing. Her little face doesn't beg for food in the morning anymore. I miss her terribly.
I wonder if it gets any easier.
