by Jacqueline Beh
Catharsis. I put Chloe to sleep in April. Chloe was my beloved feline who had contracted breast cancer. Yes, cats can get breast cancer... and succumb to it. She had an operation in November to remove the first tumor. When it returned, I knew it was time to let her go.
At first I was angry with God. For 12 years Chloe was my companion. Being widowed, she was my ipso facto spouse. She was purring in her basket when I went to sleep and lying upon my pillow when I awoke. She and her son Precious One were my children once my human son had grown up and moved out.
Chloe was mine from my late '30s to almost 50. She saw me through romantic break ups and reconciliations, through my son's Georgetown education to his engagement, through the triumph of publishing my first article to the ignominy of being fired. From heiress to struggling working woman.
I can still see her tentatively climbing on my lap, trilling at me with a request in her eyes to open the kitchen window so she could perch on the sill, napping under a broad hedge to escape summer's heat, hissing and spitting at Precious One because she truly couldn't be bothered now that he was an adult. I see her bringing forth her last kitten while four other silver dollar sized creature mewed for attention.
So you see, I'm not angry with God anymore. I'm grateful. Grateful for the 4000 days of love and darting pink tongue and purring along with my singing that Chloe provided. I still can't hear "Home on the Range" without tears springing to my eyes.
Today, Chloe is for me, the moon on the breast of the new fallen snow, a sparkle in my eyes, the glisten of love. If she could hear this she'd lick her nose and blink her eyes once, intoxicatingly in love.