Our Little Black Cat

It was just three weeks ago that we discovered a small lump under the chin of our little black cat, Otter. A trip to the vet revealed the bad news: It was most likely an aggressive form of lymphoma, and there were at least three other tumors. The cytology test to confirm the diagnosis was several hundred dollars, and if it came back positive the treatment would be weekly steroid shots that might, just might, slow the cancer down, giving her an extra few weeks. Otherwise it was unlikely she'd last the month.

We decided to bring her home and make whatever time she had left as comfortable and love-filled as possible.

Her origins were a mystery, since she and her sister—both jet black with the softest, silkiest fur and yellow-green eyes—had been unceremoniously dumped at a horse stable in the suburbs of the city. They were a few months old and the stable owners thought they might have a future as barn cats, hunting the mice and other critters that inevitably sought out the barn's food-rich, warm environs.

Unfortunately the resident barn cats weren't thrilled to be sharing their territory with these whippersnappers, and the kittens were relegated to the tack room until a home could be found for them. A friend whose daughter boarded her horse at the stable knew we had recently lost our beloved big red cat, Chester, so I went out with her to meet them.

It was destiny that determined that one would be ours that day thirteen years ago, since my friend had decided to adopt one sister already. Unnamed as yet, Dave took one look at her and declared her to be Otter, with her shiny fur and spunky nature. She preferred our Corgis' companionship to ours for a long while, tussling with them like a puppy, grabbing the thick ruff around Kitty's neck and being dragged around the room like a favorite stuffed toy.

We eventually broke down her reserve by pulling her around on a small rug or a towel, stroking her at feeding time when she was face-down in her bowl and showering her with catnip, feather toys and treats. Eventually she would jump on our laps and demand attention, her purrs increasing in volume from bare whispers to a rumble. We felt victorious.

Now we are all missing her sitting in her favorite spot, hunched between the arm of a chair and the windowsill, watching the hummingbird feeder—dubbed "hummy TV"—out the front window, and we're still looking for her black silhouette in the shadows under tables and chairs, and yowling for us to hurry up with her dinner. It's strange to only have the two dogs' bowls to fill, and to not worry about closing doors quickly in case she was just waiting for a chance to dash outside.

We miss you, Otter, and your hard-won love for us. It's an emptier house without you.