Rosalita and Roxanne were the cherished pets of a single woman whose profession required occasional business travel. While it was hard to leave them, she took comfort in their obvious affection for each other. Wherever Rosalita went, Roxanne was sure to follow. Except when I turned up, signaling Roxanne’s temporary retreat into the shadows.
She loved canned food
After a few visits, Rosalita anticipated my routine and would wait for me on the kitchen counter. Along with kibble, the cats split a can of wet food which was like kitty crack to Rosalita. She would pace the edge of the counter, unaware she was blocking my view while caressing my face with her tail. Besides being unworkable, the tickles always triggered sneezing.
So we developed separate routines. While Rosalita patrolled the counter, I reached in behind her to place the bowls in the sink to fill with water and a splash of soap. By then Rosalita would be passing under my arm, my cue to turn toward the cupboard where the cat food was stored. She paced, I circled, until the bowls were washed , rinsed, and retrieved from the sink.
If I scooped the food while standing at the counter, Rosalita’s butt would have been in my face. The solution was to perch the can and the clean bowls on top of the fridge — an area too crowded for cats— and armed with a spoon, I would pop the lid, emptying half into a bowl. By then Rosalita would be at their feeding station turning in ever tighter circles as I approached, guiding the bowl to a safe landing. After she got her fix, I was free to clean up before moving on to litter boxes.
Sometimes Rosalita’s little face would appear from above as I bent over their boxes. Slipping into the bathroom, she would crouch on the bathroom counter or the back of the toilet, stretching her neck until she caught my eye. Just dropping in to say hi. She was endearing that way.
What’s that sound?
In the evenings, Rosalita enjoyed the warmth and gentle thrum of the cable box while Roxanne and her owner curled up on the couch watching tv. One evening Rosalita was coiled on top as usual when she lifted her head, made a small strange sound, and slid off the box. She was unconscious. The owner rushed her to veterinary emergency, but it was too late. Rosalita was only 5 years old.
Her devastated owner requested a necropsy. Days later the owner returned to collect Rosalita’s ashes and was informed with sincere apologies that signals got crossed somehow, that her pet’s remains never reached the veterinary pathologist. The news that Rosalita’s cause of death would remain a mystery was like losing her all over again.
Poor Roxanne was subdued for weeks. But in the process of readjustment, the owner marveled at the change in her sweet cat. Roxanne certainly surprised me when she started hanging out in the kitchen while I prepped her meal. After a shattering loss, it was touching to watch her blossom.
Photo of Rosalita by Angela Rogers
