In memoriam: Miranda
Our cat Miranda's borrowed time finally ran out; we had to put her to sleep in the early, awful hours of Sunday morning. (It really was 3 a.m. and F. Scott Fitzgerald was not wrong.)
The best way to explain Miranda is to say, imagine that a T-1000 sent back by SkyNet to kill John Connor has to shift into a tuxedo cat (because reasons, okay?) and there's some sort of radical malfunction. It gets stuck. It can't shift out of cat form, it's cut off from SkyNet, even if it found John Connor, what's it going to do, shed him to death?
The T-1000 decides, screw SkyNet, it likes being a housecat.
There's regular food and soft places to sleep and bipeds, who are useful mostly for their thumbs but also can be seduced into giving tummy rubs if you can get them to sit still in one place long enough.
Miranda weighed 10 pounds, but she landed on the floor like she was at least twice that heavy. We were always suspicious that she had extra legs stashed somewhere from the amount of noise she made galloping through the house. She had opinions and judgments and was not afraid to share them, mostly in the form of the vowel E, which is the best vowel. She wasn't a lap cat, but she was deeply affectionate. She loved to be petted, and she loved, loved, loved tummy rubs.
All of this was top secret, of course. Visitors saw none of it; visitors were lucky to catch sight of her at all. She did Not Approve of visitors.
She was a feral rescue, along with her sister Emma who died in 2011 of the same kidney disease that finally killed Miranda on Sunday. We kept Miranda alive and happy and loving for four years after that, and while I wish like all hell that we could have kept her longer, I am so fucking grateful for the four years we got.
So. Fucking. Grateful.
Also? Crying again.
The best way to explain Miranda is to say, imagine that a T-1000 sent back by SkyNet to kill John Connor has to shift into a tuxedo cat (because reasons, okay?) and there's some sort of radical malfunction. It gets stuck. It can't shift out of cat form, it's cut off from SkyNet, even if it found John Connor, what's it going to do, shed him to death?
The T-1000 decides, screw SkyNet, it likes being a housecat.
There's regular food and soft places to sleep and bipeds, who are useful mostly for their thumbs but also can be seduced into giving tummy rubs if you can get them to sit still in one place long enough.
Miranda weighed 10 pounds, but she landed on the floor like she was at least twice that heavy. We were always suspicious that she had extra legs stashed somewhere from the amount of noise she made galloping through the house. She had opinions and judgments and was not afraid to share them, mostly in the form of the vowel E, which is the best vowel. She wasn't a lap cat, but she was deeply affectionate. She loved to be petted, and she loved, loved, loved tummy rubs.
All of this was top secret, of course. Visitors saw none of it; visitors were lucky to catch sight of her at all. She did Not Approve of visitors.
She was a feral rescue, along with her sister Emma who died in 2011 of the same kidney disease that finally killed Miranda on Sunday. We kept Miranda alive and happy and loving for four years after that, and while I wish like all hell that we could have kept her longer, I am so fucking grateful for the four years we got.
So. Fucking. Grateful.
Also? Crying again.
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Martha
(new)
Jun 23, 2015 07:49PM
we had to put our old Ra to sleep last week. He was a lovely red Abby but turning gray in old age. He, too, had kidney problems - same ones that took his sister, Tav'lyn 3 years ago. We feel your paain.
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