Whiskey

Yesterday we had to put our little cat Whiskey down.

I think what has been the hardest about this is how sudden it was. She was her usual spunky, happy cat-self the day before. But she stayed out that night, and while the vet says we'll never know what happened, it's likely she ingested poison which caused her liver to fail. Last night after a day of watching her get steadily worse, we took her in to the vet a second time to have her put to sleep. Even if we had opted for surgery (which would have been easily over a thousand dollars), the vet said it wasn't likely she'd pull through.

It's amazing how much such a small animal can make an impact on your life. Joel and I got Whiskey a few months after we were married, and she has been a constant presence in our life ever since. Through several house moves, job changes, a baby, and a move to another state, we always had her with us. During the year and a half when we were unable to get pregnant, she was my special little friend. And then Lucy was born and she stepped out of the limelight. And while I may have complained more about the amount of hair I had to roll off of our couches, I still loved that cat. Most nights after Lucy went to bed she'd end up on my lap, stretched out luxuriously while I read or watched a movie.

Lucy absolutely adored her, and we're especially sad that she's lost her little playmate. It was so fun to see her interact with Whiskey: learning how to give her "gentle pat-pats", helping me give her food and water, and watching with delight as Whiskey stalked birds and bugs outside.

Anyway, it is time once again for us to adjust to the new normal. Which is that when I open a can of tuna I won't suddenly be showered with affectionate leg rubs and loud purrs. That I can now turn on the vacuum and know that I'm not sending one member of our household into a catatonic state. That Lucy and I will walk in the door and she'll shriek "cat-kitty!" to an empty house.

It's little things like that that make me sad now, but we've already learned this year that God eases whatever burden we might be carrying, however big or small. With God's help, we are keeping our eyes on the goal, the boundless joy that will be ours when we have run our race. Weeping may endure for a night but joy comes in the morning.

We'll miss you, Whiskey. You were a great cat. And I like to think that there's another member of our family who gets to give you pat-pats now.