Sasha was born on a farm in Pescadero, California, just south of Half-Moon Bay, on August 10, 1993. This little bit of Heaven on Earth is home to my aunt and uncle, who were trying to place the kittens from a litter born to one of their farm cats. They'd heard that I, a newly-minted grad student in library science, wanted a kitten and wasn't having much luck at the local shelter in Lexington, Kentucky. I grew up with dogs, not cats, but perhaps as a result of wanting what I didn't have, I had been desperately waiting to get a cat of my own. So, my aunt and uncle agreed to send her to me, and at the young age of ten weeks, Sasha flew in the baggage hold of a passenger flight to me in Lexington from San Francisco, with a short connection in Dallas.
It was a cold night in October when I went to meet my kitten's flight (there's a sentence you don't utter every day). Her flight got in around midnight, and I anxiously paced the small baggage claim area while suitcases were put on the conveyor belt. Would they just put her on the belt next to everyone's bags? How would they know where to find me? When it seemed that no new bags were being added, and there was still no sign of anything resembling a cat carrier, I snagged one of the baggage handlers. It turns out she'd been sitting outside on the tarmac all that time, as the "live animal" label on the top of her carrier was contradicted by nobody seeing anything inside. I'd be hiding under the towels, too, if I was left outside in Kentucky at midnight in October.
Sasha learned her manners quickly and was always extremely well-behaved. We spent that first year together setting up the routines that would continue for the next twenty-one years. She learned quickly that she would get put in a carrier, or at least locked out of the bedroom, if she yelled to try to get me up in the morning, so we soon came to an understanding. She didn't wake me up, but getting her breakfast must be my first priority upon rising. Fair enough. "People-food" was never allowed at our house, and all her life, I could put plates of food near her to have her do no more than smell it as something interesting. She was a perfect litter box user. We never had a problem with treating furniture or other household goods badly, so she was pretty much allowed to climb on anything she wanted to. She was never big into toys, but she did have a small cloth "Willy Worm" of whom she was quite fond.
I didn't have a lot of experience with cats, and so at the time, I was still interested in allowing her some outdoor access. But even then, it made me nervous, so I bought a leash for her (yes, they make leashes for cats, but I bought a cheap one, and it didn't work well). One of the funniest things I've ever seen was taking Sasha out on the lawn in front of my apartment. At first, she just splayed her legs out, flat on her stomach, not understanding what to do on this strange surface. Then she started scooting around on her tummy. She couldn't figure out how to walk on the grass! An incident of her breaking out of the leash and managing to dash over to the apartment complex office was enough for me not to try that again.
When I got my first professional job in Gastonia, NC, she drove the seven hours with me to my new apartment and found that she liked it as much as I did. It's still one of my favorite apartments. By this time, she was something of a spoiled little girl and hadn't learned much about being a cat. My favorite memory from this period was the day that I came home at lunch and decided to lay out for a bit on the back patio to get some sun. Soaking up the warmth, I heard something that made me turn my head. Evidently, Sasha had also wanted to get some sun, so she'd managed to slide open the screen door and let herself out. As is often the case during North Carolina's late spring, everything was yellow in pollen, and by the time I opened my eyes, so was Sasha. She was rolling around on her back, scratching any itch she might have, and couldn't have been happier.
After a few years, we moved to Durham, where it became clear that I babied Sasha beyond belief. I wanted to put her in the bathroom while we brought stuff in from the truck to my new apartment. "She might get scared or startled," I explained to my parents. My mom laughed and said she should be right in the middle of it getting comfortable with movement and noises (she didn't get a lot of that just living with me). We compromised, and she sat in her carrier on the dining room table while we unpacked.
It was in Durham that Sasha got sisters. At this point, it had been she and I against the world for five years, and she wasn't interested in changing that. She was pretty content with my company and not much interested in anyone else's, human or animal. But I had gotten into cat rescue work, and as happens to most people who get involved in rescue work, I soon landed foster cats at my house. Sasha expressed great displeasure at this turn of events. It's just for a little while, I assured her. But it was soon obvious that the additions to our household were way too comfortable to consider leaving. Sasha spent the next six months sitting on the toilet seat, facing the tank, with her back to the rest of us. It was one of the most pitiful things I've ever seen, and I spent a lot of time on the phone with my friend Vicki trying to figure out if this was really going to work. The day Sasha climbed down from the toilet seat (again, not a sentence you hear everyday) and started smacking the others around, I knew it would be okay. She needed them to understand that she was at the top of the totem pole (Mom, excluded, of course), and as long as they remembered that, they'd get along fine.
Interestingly, Sasha never really became friends with any of my other cats, and it's understandable considering she had me all to herself for five years. They were clearly interlopers. But it was her sisters that taught her to be a cat. She'd never admit it, of course, but she totally copied them. One Christmas, I came back from having been out of town to arrive back at my apartment at about 1am. Wanting to keep the girls busy while I unpacked enough to go to bed, I found a pack of tiny toy mice I'd brought back for them and threw them around the living room. Sasha started rubbing on them, making sure they smelled like her. Very possessive, that one. But I noticed her watching Dalilah, who was batting them around, tossing them up in the air, sneaking up on them. And before I knew it, Sasha was doing the same thing. Every once in a while, I caught her doing something she'd never done before in imitation of the other cats.
This arrangement continued when I bought my house and everyone had more room to spread out. The other cats pretty much kept out of Sasha's way, and I made every effort to give her extra attention. She was my favorite, always would be, and I didn't care if I showed favoritism. Cats pretty much set up their own social structure (which is subject to change at any time), and there's not a lot their humans can do about it, but I must say I encouraged her place at the top. I was working at home one day when I observed something that must have gone on quite a while, but which I'd never noticed. My back door had a long, luxurious stream of sunlight coming in that was perfect for cats sitting in a row to get their daily dose of sun. It fit about three cats, so they would start lining up closest to the door, first one cat, then the next, and somehow, Sasha often seemed to land at the end. But, that not being the prime spot, she would stare at the cat in front of her until that cat was finally intimidated enough to move and let her get closer to the door. Then she'd do it to the next cat until she got the best spot right in front of the door. No one argued with her. No one dared.
One weekend, when Sasha was 8 years old, I found that she'd isolated herself in my bedroom closet and clearly didn't feel good. I took her to the vet on Monday, where they took some blood and gave her some fluids. I loved the folks at the Carrboro Plaza Vet Clinic, and I knew they would figure out what was up. The next day was September 11, 2001, and I was returning to my office after trying to get some news about the Twin Towers when I got a voice mail from Dr. Sheri. Sasha's blood work had come back, and her kidney values indicated she was in renal failure. So I went home to get Sasha and bring her to the vet, listening to NPR all the way. Dr. Sheri warned me that they couldn't guarantee a good prognosis yet, this was quite serious, but they would keep her for the week and give her all kinds of supportive measures to try to bring her out of the crisis. Sasha being Sasha, she did recover, and the day I went to pick her up with a return to joy in her eyes was one of the best days ever. She looked so much better than the last time I'd seen her! I learned how to give her fluids on a regular basis, bought her special food, and immediately began reading all about CRF: Chronic Renal Failure. Most cats will go into renal failure eventually, if they live long enough, but this was a little young. They can live several more years in this state with good support. Sasha broke all the records by living another 13 years.
One by one, Sasha's sisters passed on, but Sasha continued to do well. She had other minor health issues, like a heart murmur. But mostly, she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. I told people that she was first in, and by God, she was going to be the last out! I think she was just stubborn enough to be waiting to have me all to herself. And so she did. She LOVED being an only child again. Not only did she get all my attention, but she got all the attention of anyone who came over, including my boarders. She'd never much been interested in anyone but me, but as she got older, she found that she liked being the center of attention. And what princess wouldn't? When my mom came to visit, she sat with her on the couch. She made new friends in Miss Laura and Miss Flora, boarders who cared for her as much as I did. And she became loud. Boy, did she become loud! I never quite figured out what it was--Dr. Sheri said she might be starting to get a little senile--but she would pick the most inopportune times (like 4AM) to start yeowling. She didn't seem to really want anything, just for everyone to know she was there. For someone who'd never been particularly chatty, old age was turning her into quite a loudmouth.
One of the best things I ever did for Sasha was to get her a play pen so she could sit out on the back deck. I'm way too paranoid to let her out with some kind of protection. I didn't think she'd really go anywhere, but you never know what a cat will do when startled. At this point, she was too old to jump very high, so I ended up with an octagonal shaped, topless pen with a door that I could line up with my back door. She loved the ability to ask to go outside (at least, that's what I assume the whining next to the back door was). She'd stretch out and bask in the sun, warm those old bones, and yell when she was ready to come back in. She was only allowed out when I was nearby to keep an eye on her, but we both got a kick out of her expanded living area. She wasn't as interested in it as it got cooler, and it seemed the whole point was to get some sun. If there was not direct sun shining onto the deck, she'd walk out there, turn a circle, and walk right back inside.
At 19 years old, I informed Sasha that she was going to have to pull up stakes and move to Gainesville, Florida. Not only that, she was going to have to stay with her Auntie Vicki for a couple of weeks while I got the house ready to sell and packed up to leave. It seems that this bothered me more than it bothered her. Sasha got her own room at Auntie Vicki's, complete with her own furniture and lots of time with Vicki. Every time I went over to visit, she was so excited (not to mention full of herself) that she scooted back and forth between me and Vicki, not sure who she wanted to be with more. She couldn't stand that she had both of us in the same room. Eventually, it came time to pick her up and head out of town. I literally went to get her after having packed the car to the roof and was ready to drive way, and it was only then that I realized how many accoutrements she has. That girl owned more things than I think any girl should own. Beds and blankets and brushes, oh my. For a few minutes, I thought she'd have to drive, and I'd have to ride on the roof. With some creative packing, and some flexibility with my need to see out the back window, we all made it inside (with the one of us with a license at the wheel). We stopped for the night in Savannah, where Sasha got to stay in her first (and last) hotel room. She didn't think much of it. She was good in the car, and I was able to keep her carrier open so that she was safe, but I could give her periodic pets.
We settled in to our third floor apartment, where I was happy to see that she enjoyed the porch I'd made sure was part of my new floor plan. A screened in porch, she was able to walk in and out at will (blissfully unconcerned about the electric bill). She adjusted pretty well, found her new favorite spots (the ones where she got lots of sun, naturally), and began developing an affinity for dry Fancy Feast. What was once a special treat soon became more and more a part of her regular diet. At this point in her life, her special diet wasn't going to do much for her, so I gave in (her increased yelling at the pantry door made that an easy choice). And she had her running water bowl with a little waterfall, which made her quite a happy (and sometimes wet) girl. She was pretty clingy, wanting to be with me wherever I was, and a laptop was not enough to stop her from crawling onto my lap. She insisted she could only sit on my lap facing one direction, so if she happened to crawl up facing the other way, we went through an elaborate process of circling on my legs a few times until she was facing the proper direction.
Sasha had a few crises in this last year, the scariest one of which started as I was leaving town for several days. She recovered, convincing me she wasn't quite ready to go anywhere yet. We found a new vet here in Gainesville, and the folks at the Jonesville Animal Hospital are as fantastic as those at my former vet's office. They started her on therapy, which despite being great fun to tell people, really just referred to a laser therapy developed to ease the pain in her spine and joints. It seemed to help, and along with some meds, she felt pretty good. She did get cold easily, and I often came home to find her way deep under my bed covers (although, in fairness, she had always loved to do this). One day, I went to go tell her I was home and pulled the covers back only to have her turn her head and put it back under the covers. Her age was starting to show, as evidenced in those black whiskers turning white, but she was still happy.
Last week, Sasha stopped eating and obviously wasn't feeling well. Not wanting to linger here, I'll just say that she quickly went downhill. It's terrifying to try to make decisions for someone else, even your cat. I've said for a long time that I would not extend a cat's life just for me, that they needed to be happy and comfortable and interested in living for me to continue medical intervention. It was time to put my money where my mouth was. Thursday night, I took her to the vet for the last time. With us was that red and white teddy bear with which we started life together.
Sasha was a constant throughout my adult life. I used to tell her she was a California Cat, then a Kentucky Kitty, then a Carolina Cat, and finally, a Florida Feline, but we were together the entire time. I was 22 when she came to me, and I'm amazed that she stayed with me as long as she did. She was the one who was with me in grad school when I knew no one (and all those other places I moved where I knew no one). She came through and accepted other cats in the house even though she wanted me all to herself. She was willing to split the bed fifty-fifty, conveniently forgetting that our size comparison was far from fifty-fifty. Even I didn't realize how very much a part of everything I do she is. I've noticed that I don't leave stuff on the couch (though I'll leave stuff on any other surface with space) because she might want to sit there. I keep the toilet seat closed in case she wants to crawl up there (even though she hadn't done that in years). I periodically ask for plastic bags at the grocery store because I can use them for scooping. I don't leave the dryer door open because cats might crawl in. I look around to see what she's doing before I leave the house. I see a shadow and think she's approaching me. I hear a noise and think she's at her water bowl or litter box. She's not physically here anymore, but she'll be with me forever.
PS: In our last moments together, I told Sasha she was going to get to see her sisters. Then, imagining her response as most pet owners do, I could hear her saying, "And what makes you think I want to see them?"
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