Bugs, Mocho, Snip, Priss by Carolyn Fischer / Carolyn

On December 15th, 2003, my heart lay on the ground. Four of our cats died from smoke inhalation in the fire that destroyed our home and our happiness. I would like to tell you about them:

Buggsy was about 18 years old. She was a Cymric Manx; long tortoise-shell hair and a stub of a tail. I adopted her from the humane society and had her for nearly 15 years. She got her name because in her younger days, she loved preying on bugs. She also loved tipping over glasses and would watch as the liquid spilled out. If someone had a dish of ice cream, she instantly materialized from thin air, ready for her spoonful. She was a mellow observer and had an inscrutable stare.

Mocho was an “in front of a store give-away”, the only kitten in a litter of seven who looked like her tuxedo daddy, rather than her Siamese mother. She was a one-person cat and I was her person. When she was in labor with her first and only litter, she never made a secluded “nest” in which to give birth. Instead, she tried to find me, actually birthing her first kitten as she struggled to go to me. Mocho was great when I was sick. She always seemed to know that I needed snuggles and kisses.

Snipper was Mocho’s only son and he looked like her except he had medium length hair from his Maine Coon daddy. When he was born, Mocho did not lick him to remove the birth sac, so I did it with a warm wash cloth and stimulated him until he was breathing regularly. After that he was asthmatic . I decided to keep the first kitten who was affectionate, and it was Snipper, rather than his three sisters, that I kept. He went through several of his nine lives.

At nine months he ate a black widow spider and after being paralyzed for a while, recovered. Then he went missing and after five days I found him shut up in a junked car on my neighbor’s property. When he was eight years old, he became very sick and spent a week in the animal hospital. He had diabetes and because of peripheral neuropathy, he could barely walk.

I exercised his back legs, doing kitty PT and a year later he could leap high enough in mid air to nab the starling that flew from our wood stove (it fell down the stove pipe) He needed insulin shots twice a day, but would take them with no problem. He was my soul-mate and I felt very responsible for him, after all that I did for him. In the last year before the fire, he became especially close to me. In fact, we called him “Velcro Kitty”. He would lick me until I was covered with kitty spit. He was my life and it has been so hard to go on without him.

Priscilla also died that terrible day. She was 13 years old and was my partner’s brother’s cat – the only thing he had left after a divorce and a cross-country move . I hadn’t known her long, but she seemed to fit right in to our feline family.

I know this is a long message, but I have experienced a multiple pet loss. I am slowly recovering, but even after six weeks, I find myself crying every night when I am driving home from work. It is the only safe time I can grieve. I am also seeing a therapist to help me recover.
Thank you for letting me tell my story,

Carolyn Fischer


Until we meet again at the Rainbow Bridge,
Bugs, Mocho, Snip, Priss
Carolyn Fischer