Rose-Owls and Pumpkin Girls

Last night, when I got home, my eighteen-year-old cat was wheezing, having difficulty breathing, and obviously in pain. I got her calmed down, offered her food, which she declined, and put her on my pillow to sleep. She napped a little, woke up, cried a little, and seemed to settle. Then Lilly -- my five-year-old -- got onto the bed, and Nyssa attacked her viciously, going for her eyes. Lilly is the mellowest cat alive. She freaked out, and ran, crying, to hide under the desk.

Nyssa was still clearly in pain, and collapsed back on the pillow wheezing and panting. So I called my mother, and got Nyssa into the carrier while I waited for Mom to come and pick me up. We left for the vet at five o'clock. I got home around seven-thirty.

Nyssa was old. She was tired. The vet said her kidneys had completely stopped functioning; she weighed less than five pounds, and she didn't fight at all. Not once. She just let us hold her, and she purred, and she was limp and calm. Batya said recently that Nyssa had no bones left, that she was just paper mache and mice, and that was her last night.

I told her she was good. I stayed with her the whole time, and I told her she was good, and I told her it was okay, that she could go, that I wouldn't be mad. But I think I was lying. I'm not okay at all. She was supposed to live forever. That was the whole deal. I would love her, and take care of her, and put up with her, and she would live forever. I made that deal with Nyssa, and with Leela, and with Sarah Jane, and Ben, and Pepper, and Pirate, and Princess, and Mindy, and every cat I've ever lived with. And they never keep their side of the bargain, and I love them anyway, and I am not okay.

I want my kitty back. But more, I just want to know that she isn't hurting anymore. I guess that's how this can be okay. Because she isn't hurting anymore. And somewhere in my heart, she's still half a pound of fur, and I'm still arguing that they have to let me keep her, and today is a million years away. I always fall in love again.

Oh, Nyssa. Oh, I love you.

I love my cats dearly, and spoil them whenever possible, largely because spoiled cats are much calmer about me deciding that they can't be in my lap while I'm trying to write. (Lilly has an excellent future as a face-hugger, should she ever decide to go that route. She's perfectly capable of starting on my knees, and then oozing slowly up the length of my body to wrap around my face like a fuzzy purring muff. This actually does nothing to reduce continuity errors in my novels, and may explain why so many of my characters seem to want to be claustrophobic.)

I tend to skim the various 'spoil your cats' sites in the week or so after Christmas, looking for deals and discounts. My cats really don't care if I'm paying full price for their crinkly mice, they just want the crinkly mice, dammit. Being sensible about my purchases allows me to buy them a lot more crinkly mice, and buy myself more uninterrupted writing at the same time. Everybody wins.

I wound up on the Armarkat website -- makers of excellent modular cat furniture, which I have purchased in the past, and which has met with enthusiastic feline approval -- and discovered that one of their smaller-base four-level trees was on deep, deep discount, due to people not really liking the color, which they described as 'red-orange.' I promptly had my housemate measure the available floor space in my room, declared it good, and ordered the cat tree. It arrived on Thursday; yesterday night, my mother came over to help me assemble it.

They lied about the color. It's not 'red-orange.' Certain citrus fruits are red-orange. Some birds are red-orange. This? This is not red-orange. This is a color never found in nature -- in fact, this is a color rarely found outside of Henson Studios, which makes sense, given that the surfaces not wrapped in scratching-post cord are upholstered in what feels for all the world like dead Muppet.

This thing is pumpkin-fucker orange. It's virulent. And impressive.

The cats are ecstatic. Nyssa has been in and out of the house on the second level all morning, while Lilly sits serenely on the post at level three -- low enough to box Nyssa's ears, high enough to be the highest cat -- and radiates Siamese, if you please. Best of all, they've been leaving me almost entirely alone.

Pumpkin-fucker orange: when you absolutely, positively need to be certain that nobody's ever going to break into your house and steal your cat tree.

ETA: Whoops, some birds flew by, and now Lilly's on the top level, chittering like mad. This thing is like kitty cable in HD.

I am assured that the single best thing an author can do for raising awareness of their blog -- no matter how awesome or insightful or filled with chocolate as it may chance to be -- is to, well, post pictures of their cats. I'm somewhat dubious about this theory, but hey, I always have pictures of my cats to share. And that means?

Time for cat pictures.

( Cut because kindness says 'do not force others to look at your cats without actually agreeing to the activity.' Also because there are several graphics here. )