Remembering Twinky

     Twinky, my beloved cat for fifteen years, passed away at home on Monday, October 25. The vet and vet tech came to the house, and they were wonderful, giving Twinky a shot first to sedate her before the second, final shot, was administered. She died in my arms, wrapped in a blanket. Her body was taken away to  be cremated and returned to me. I had agonized over the decision to end Twinky's life that day. She was still eating, but the fluid in her abdominal cavity--after having been drained once the previous week--was building up again. The vet said that, for it to build up again so fast, the situation inside her must be very bad. So I decided to let Twinky go while she was still relatively comfortable and not in any pain. Would that it could be this simple for humans.

     Twinky was with me through four major relationships, one of them a marriage, and five relocations, four within Colorado and the last one out here to Pismo Beach. She knew the moment I got into bed and would come into the bedroom, jump up on the bed, and sleep nestled up against my hair. Being blind for the last five years didn't daunt her a bit.


Twinky resting on one of her final days




Enjoying the sunshine





Little Dude keeps her company

           I feel that twice I almost lost Twinky and twice God returned her to  me. The first time was when, as her foster mom, I foolishly decided to put her up for adoption, thinking that I should adopt an older cat more in need of a home. When I realized I had made the wrong decision, I hurried down to the Boulder Valley Humane Society, only to find a couple in the process of adopting Twinky. I was devastated. I remember sobbing all the way home in my car, saying "I'm so sorry", both to Twinky and to myself, for having been so oblivious to how much I wanted her in my life.     That was on a Friday. On Monday I called the BVHS to tell them they needed to remind Twinky's new people that she needed to continue her medication for the  infection that had already cost her an eye. To my amazement, the woman said, "But she's still here. The adoption didn't go through." Needless to say, I rushed back to Boulder and adopted Twinky, so grateful that I (and she) had been given a second chance.     The second time I thought I'd lost Twinky was one of the most painful episodes of my life. I was married and my husband and I had decided to spend part of the summer in Michigan, even though we'd just moved into a new home in Mead, CO. The cats were in the habit of going outside, so I insisted to the petsitter that they be allowed to go out, even though they were now in a new neighborhood with an unfamiliar person coming to feed them. That decision was completely misguided and unthinking on my part and I have regretted it bitterly. I would never leave any animal alone in new surroundings now or allow it access to the outdoors for at least a month.     Within a couple of weeks, I found out that Twinky and another of my cats, Puppy, had disappeared. I flew back to CO to search. I started sleeping out on the back steps in case one or both of them came home in the night. I remember waking up and hearing Twinky meow. She was standing right there. Before that moment, whenever I'd heard or read of somebody who'd pinched themselves to see if they were dreaming, I'd thought it sounded silly. How could anyone not know if they were awake or asleep? But at that moment, I honestly wasn't sure. I just remember thinking that if this was a dream, if I woke up and Twinky was not really there, I would die. So I dug my nails into my arm and I picked Twinky up and she was real.     The joy of being reunited with Twinky was, of course, only matched by the guilt and grief I also felt over Puppy, who never came home. I don't know if he and Twinky left together or separately, or if Twinky went with him on some journey that only she was able to return from. But once again, I felt that God had given her back to me.     I have been blessed and privileged to have Twinky in my life. When I walk in the front door, I still find myself looking at the spot on the sofa where she would invariably be sitting. When I call "treat time" I still expect her to be the first to show up. Knowing this will never happen again leaves a great emptiness. The house doesn't feel right without her, and I wonder if the other cats are aware of her absence. She was a beautiful, sweet soul and will be terribly missed.