My sister got her in Atlanta as a kitten in 2004. She named her Caddie because in Atlanta, people said “Caddie corner,” instead of “Kitty corner,” and that was apparently a good enough reason to name her that. My sisters friend once described her as looking like “if a cat walked out out of a garbage can and then you threw up on it.” Shortly after that she was called Vomit by me and everyone except my sister.
In 2005, my sister and I moved in together, blending our two cats, Vomit and Sawyer. The they hated each other from day one. Sawyer still hissed at her on her literal death bed. Every once in a while though, I’d catch them sleeping with their butts touching or something that always left me thinking that they secretly DO love each other.
My sister and I lived together with those cats for 7 years until she met her husband who is horribly allergic and they moved in together. I happily adopted Vom who I had clearly formed a closer bond with than Sawyer. Sawyer loved my husband though so we each had our respective cat. Vom gave me cat hats and watched me work. She always had to be touching me or some piece of electronic equipment at all times. She buried her head in my neck while I slept and her purrs matched the rhythm of my breath. It soothed my anxiety and helped me sleep. The very best snuggle buddy in the world.
I took SO. MANY. PICTURES. of her. I remember worrying when I was pregnant that I wouldn’t love my son as much as I loved her. I couldn’t imagine loving anything more.
A year and a half with a baby changed some things. Priorities shifted, but she still slept on my head (when Rowan wasn’t around,) and still rested her chin on my laptop while I edited and Ro napped.
Her cancer came quickly, or I just didn’t notice, and eventually Ryan and I knew it was time to say goodbye. We brought the litter box up to the corner of the bathroom she wouldn’t move out of. We cuddled her hard and gave her turkey and put her in the sun spots. We carried her into bed, and thanked her for being such a good cat to us. We laughed at the memory of Ryan chasing her down the street when she escaped, and me waddling after him (9 months pregnant) only to discover when he finally caught her, face full of pride, it wasn’t our cat. It was a stray that looked just like Vom, while Vom was purring peacefully in the bedroom upstairs.
We took her in and watched her peacefully leave the world. We learned that they are very humane and gentle with the animals. That eventually they burry them in a butterfly garden in the oldest pet cemetery in Chicago.
Then we had brunch. It’s so strange that we walk around just having brunch after watching a family member die. The waiter had no idea, nobody knew that we just experienced something so hard and monumental for both of us. He just asked if we wanted coffee.
We both felt relief that we didn’t have to see her in pain anymore. Or wonder if when we came down in the morning she would be alive behind the bathroom door or not. I kept saying goodbyes every time I left the room.
I could instantly feel the absence from the house by the routine way I don’t open the door much when I walk in and am instinctually prepared to shoo away a cat that tries to escape. “She’s a runner,” we’d say.
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