by Leslie O'Sullivan
When I am old, gray and losing my memory, there will be one day that never leaves my mind. 20 years old and just 2 weeks from my 21st birthday, I was excited. Not just about my impending adulthood, but also because my family had just bought and moved into a new house. Only one thing was impeding my happiness; My 16 year old kitty, Baby K, had taken to going to the bathroom on the new house. Needless to say, my mother was not happy about this and, deciding that something must be wrong with her, insisteed that I take her to the vet, which I did. The vet was light about her condition, saying only that she possibly had a kidney problem (he said he'd call a specialist and ask his opinion)and to make sure litterboxes were always available to her. Nevertheless, due to her accidents, my mother insisted that I lock her in my tiled bathroom (when we weren't home to watch her) with food, water, her bed and a litterbox, which I also did. A few days later, when she seemed to be doing better, we caught her again going to the bathroom on the carpet. My mother then states that she was going to call the vet. I agreed, believing that she was calling to talk to the specialist. Later, while at work, I called my mother at her job to see what the specialist had said. She then informed me that my baby was due to be put to sleep in less then two hours. I was furious. More then furious; I was hysterical. She had planned to put my little one to sleep without telling me. I explained the situation to my boss and quickly drove the 22 miles to meet my mother at the vet's office. She drove up, with my baby in a cat carrier. I was already completely in tears by this point. When we went inside to wait, I took her out and held her in my arms, close to my heart like I always had. She had previously been to the vet and had, every time before, fought tooth and nail before I was able to extracted her from the cage, and even then, she wouldn't hold still in my arms. This time was different. She sat very still, very quietly, and not at all resistent. I don't know how long I held her for, crying into her fur, before they came to take her to put the IV into her paw. After this was done, she was again brought back to me, still calm, still quiet. I was then escorted to a room with a long, steel table in it, which I refused to put her on. Again, I don't know how much time passed before the vet came in, forced me to place her on the table (I wouldn't remove my arms from around her) and told me that she would "just go to sleep". He injected her with a clear liquid and put a stethoscope to her tummy. Her eyes went blank and her head lolled. She died in my arms. The vet left and I put my head to her tummy and sobbed. I begged her to come back to me, to open her eyes, to please please please wake up. She wouldn't; couldn't. Time was lost once again as I held her lifeless, furry little body. Finally, I spoke the last words I ever would in her presence; I sang the song that I had always sung to her: "You'll always be a part of me, I'm holding you indefinitely. Girl, don't you know you can't escape me, Ooh darling, 'cause you'll Always Be My Baby...."