R.I.P. Ally

When I was young and single, I have to admit: I was a bit lonely. I was working at the Associated Press on crappy weekend night shifts, totally missing out on any fun that life in your mid-20s has to offer. So, I decided to adopt a little kitty from the pound. The cat I picked was in heat and needed to be fixed but, because of her, uh, state at the time ... I named her Heidi, after Hollywood Madam Heidi Fleiss. But she came to me sickly, and I spent weeks feeding her chicken broth from a dropper and spending God knows how much money to fix what turned out to be an unfixable cat. A month after I got her, I held her and cried into her sweet, soft face as the vet mercifully put her to rest.

A few months later, my mother's friend's cat had kittens. On one of my days off, the friend brought the four kitties over to my mom's house for me to spend some time with them and pick one to fill that void in my life. At 6:30 a.m. that day, my mom called and woke me up. "You have to pick two," she said. "Are you kidding?" I replied. "Have you seen the size of my apartment? And my track record with animals so far isn't so stellar ... do we really want to risk me being responsible for not one but two lives?"

But, she said, they were soooo cute together. And they needed each other. I came to her house and spent the next few hours in a room with four of the most adorable, fuzzy, playful six-week-old kittens ever. I knew off the bat which one was mine. As her siblings played, she came running up to me with her tiny mew, and never left me alone. That was Zowie.

Among her brothers and sister, I chose the one that she seemed to be the most into, even though that kitty didn't seem so into me. Nearly identical sisters but for a few variations in their tortoise-shell markings, those two were a pair. The second kitty became known as Ally, short for Alabama Slammer, since she spent a good deal of her kittenhood walking along the back of the couch and slamming her little body into my head. That's Ally in front:

They were normal, needy kitties. Their whole bodies vibrated with their loud purrs. They tussled with each other day and night, often getting kicked out of my bedroom because of their late-night antics of pouncing and getting stuck between the mattress and the wall.

As time went on, they mellowed out and settled into their own personalities. For a while, they were both inexplicably skittish around strangers. While Zowie remains a reclusive freak to this day, Ally seemed to figure out that you needed to be bold to get attention. And as my attention divided and divided and divided over the next 13 years, Ally resourcefully learned to spy vacant laps and idle hands. She put up with grabby toddlers and the annoyed shoves of allergic visitors. She was always there, though, giving a loud meow hello as she entered the room and insisting everyone acknowledge her presence. She was beautiful with big green eyes and a soft white belly.

There are many times that I feel guilty about being a neglectful cat owner, letting the demands of children, husband, house and job (not necessarily in that order, but kind of) keep me from giving her the attention she so badly wanted. Most nights, though, we found some time to sit together on the couch. Ally seemed to have a radar for when I sat down and would come from wherever she was to curl up on my lap. She used to also sleep in bed with us (and Zowie), the two of them jocking for the prime spot closest to my face.

In the last few months, though, she stopped making the trek upstairs to our bedroom. But she enjoyed life from her perch mid-living room atop the back of the couch, amid all the action. In the last few days, though, even the jump to her special spot became impossible.

She's spent most of the last month holed up in her kitty carrier in the basement laundry room. Every night, I've dragged her diminishing body out to give her a subcutaneous IV treatment. All that bag of fluids did, though, was prolong what was coming to be an agonizing truth: Ally was slowly, surely dying.

It's been horrible to watch as the kidney failure shrunk her body, taken her spirit, robbed us all of her purr and quashed her appetite. In the end, Ally was barely able to walk.

I didn't know when to say "when." Other pet owners who had gone through this said she will somehow, someway, let me know when enough was enough. I worried I missed the cue. And I worried I'd jump the gun, robbing her of a precious few days of life. I struggled with wanting to have some last, quality moments with her and not prolonging her agony just for my benefit. I stayed up at night, thinking about how her death would effect the boys - especially Riley, who always went out of his way to offer her a pat and a kiss. I worried about what to say and how much to say.

Mostly, I cried over my poor kitty. My constant companion who has loved me unconditionally, no matter the slights.

In the last few days, she grew so weak, barely able to hold her four-pound body up as she walked. Knowing the end was near, I wanted her to go out with a little treat, and offered her her favorites - tuna fish and ice cream. She didn't eat either.

The time came tonight when "when" was obviously here. I tried matter-of-factly to have the kids say good-bye to her as I explained she was going to the kitty doctor and would not be coming home. Holden asked, "Can't they fix her?" And it broke my heart to look at his teary eyes and say, "No, honey. No they can't."

My mom came and stayed with the boys so Kevin could come with me to the vet. She took one look at the listless, twitchy kitty and knew, too, that the time had come. The end came quickly and without any reaction for my little Ally.

It was a hard choice, but the right choice. She's no longer suffering, and that's the most important thing.

Everyone around here is pretty sad tonight. Holden cried the whole time we were gone and barely ate dinner. He has lots of questions that are hard to answer, but we're trying hard. I tell him I'm sad, too, and I will be for a while. But we were lucky to have such a wonderful kitty for so long, and I'm going to think about the good times.

So, my sweet kitty, I hope you're in a better place, one filled with tuna fish and ice cream and hand after hand wanting nothing but to scratch your jowls and give you elevator butt again and again. We will miss you and we will always love you.