Koshka by Kerry

The Christmas before last, my dear old kitty Koshka survived an operation for small-cell lymphoma. He did not quite make it to this Christmas, but he did live to 17 and filled my heart with happiness. The day I decided to bring Koshka home with me, he sat in my lap at a party with his head in my hand all evening. He was very sociable and lonely when I was away at film school, so soon his sister Zaoie came to join us. These cats were my constant companions and very nearly my children for many years–
they had the sweetest personalities.

Koshka was beloved by many people who prefer dogs, as he had a very direct, friendly, active, and confident manner. He also had a thing about shoes and loved to embrace them on people’s feet and roll around with them on the floor. He was very smart–he and Zaoie understood many words such as “food, good, bad, no, kiss, run and hide” (for the vacuum cleaner), and Koshka in particular easily and almost immediately learned things I wanted him to, such as ringing a wind chime I hung by my balcony door when he wanted to go out, or how to play “guess which hand”–one of the games I devised to keep him interested and bring his weight back up with treats while he was on chemo. I would hold out both my hands, closed, and he would look at and sniff them both, decide which one the treat was in,
and pat it with his paw. Sometimes he’d forget about the other hand if he guessed wrong,
and I’d remind him, “Pat, pat.”

He had a way of smiling with his eyes and spreading his paws out before him like a sphinx when he was happy, and every single time I put my ear against his side, he would purr. He did this almost to the very last moment of his life. He was a big cat (17 pounds in his prime), and the first time my sister and niece–then a toddler–visited, I looked over at one point and saw my niece stretched out lying directly on him–he quite calmly lay there with her whole body on top of him.
Many people thought he was a purebred Russian Blue (his mother was a mutt) because of his incredibly soft, silvery, plush fur–dense like an otter’s–and his smiley face.

When we lived in Southern California, Koshka and Zaoie were indoor-outdoor cats, and when I opened the door of my Santa Monica apartment, Koshka would often dart right out, but would stand there poised for a moment deciding which way to go, with his tail pointing straight up, so I could secure him by the tail, then scoop him up in my arms. When the big Northridge earthquake hit, the cats bolted out the door while I stood in the doorway and didn’t come back for a while. The aftershocks continued to scare them, until one came while Koshka was sitting on my lap; he turned in alarm and looked up in my eyes and I told him it was all right–
he relaxed trustingly.

We got out of Southern California not long after that, and I moved the cats in phases with me up North. When I was driving them from the Bay Area, where they had stayed with my mom, to my sister’s in Oregon, they were in the front seat of my car in a carrier. I was cold and tired and had to pull over to rest, curled up in the front seat with my body twisted around the emergency brake. I let them out of the carrier, patted my side, and called Koshka to come up. He came and lay on top of me and kept me warm, purring.

He was always very affectionate and preferred to sleep cuddled against someone–with Zaoie he’d tuck his head against her back and put an arm around her; with me, he’d often sleep with his head on my shoulder. After he got sick, he liked to sometimes crawl under the covers and sleep among my legs. He liked to give me little love bites on the face and sometimes fit his fangs around the tip of my nose–after he had many of his teeth pulled, he still tried to do this with his single remaining fang.

The Seattle neighborhoods I lived in did not seem safe for cats to be outside (I later learned the greenbelt near Delridge has coyotes and many cats have gone missing there) so they became indoor cats but loved to perch on the balcony and peer down at the world.

When he got sick and had his operation, I would meditate with him, putting my hands on him. The incision went the whole length of his belly, and after the operation, he would often come and lie with his shaved belly and his scar directly on my hands. He was such a sweet, affectionate friend that the thought of losing him was heartbreaking, and his survival (he was already 15 and had lost half his body weight) seemed miraculous.

He was saddened after his sister Zaoie died last year and would go around the house meowing and looking for her, for months. Once out on the balcony I flipped over the cushions on the glider–Zaoie’s favorite place to sit. They had not been flipped since she died and must have still smelled of her, because he became very animated and started purring and pumping the cushions. Because of his compromised immune system, I was worried about getting another cat and delayed it–I got a little kitten to keep him company and quarantined her, but sadly it turned out he was already in his final decline. She did not get to be his companion, but because she is a sociable, active kitty who needs feline company, she did ensure the continued multi-cat occupation of my “cat suite.”

Before Koshka’s operation I had told him I loved him so much and to come back to me. He lived almost 20 months on chemo, steroids, and constant care and encouragement from his wonderful vets, me, and the friends who visited and looked after him. That is a long time, and I am so happy we had all those extra days. He was so strong that when he was dying, even the vets couldn’t tell for sure, so we did try hydrating him and I started his final course of chemo, but he put his front paws over my leg a couple of times in the vet’s office when I was sitting on the floor with him, as if asking for my help. He also crept away to hide as animals will do when they know it is time.

The morning when I could see the end was coming, I told him it was OK to go. I made a little tent out of pillows and blankets on my bed so I could stay close to him while we waited for his appointment, and he reached out a few times and patted me with his paw. When I took him out to the car, I wrapped him in my old baby blanket
and carried him in my arms.

Koshka is buried under an apple tree, wrapped in that blanket, and near Zaoie, with a little bit of her fur, a lock of my hair, and a little shoe in his grave–my niece and nephews picked out one belonging to my youngest nephew because he loved shoes so.

We went through so much together, and he brought so much joy into my life, reminding me over and over that nothing else is really important compared to the love, caring, compassion, and delight that we living creatures can bring to one another.

All my love,

Kerry