Squeaky

Eighteen winters ago, Squeaky showed up on our front porch during a snowstorm wearing a red collar. 

We assumed that a collared cat belonged to somebody, so I printed some flyers about our find, distributed them throughout the neighborhood, but there were no takers. So Squeaky, so-named because she squeaked rather than meowed, joined our four cats and two dogs.

Squeaky preferred humans to dogs and cats, so she usually hung out with the humans – my wife while I was at work and me while I was at home – and bullied the other pets if they crossed her path. 

She seemed to be curious about my femulations. If she caught me getting crossdressed in our bedroom, she would hang back for the transformation. Or if she found me already crossdressed, she would often hang with me for awhile. 

She outlived our dogs and other cats, so for the past three years, she has been our only pet. During that time, which coincided with my retirement, she became even closer to me. Every evening, she would snuggle up next to me while I was watching television or working at my computer and I would break from whatever I was doing to massage her.

About two weeks ago, she began acting oddly. She would just sit and stare at nothing. She began curling up in places where she never curled up before. She ate less or not at all and spent less time snuggling up with me. The Internet said she was dying and I made plans to take her to the vet. 

By last Wednesday evening, she had not snuggled with me in days, so I scooped her up off the floor and placed her next to me on our sofa – our normal spot for snuggling. I massaged her back and head for about 20 minutes and then she left to return to the floor, where I found her lifeless body the next morning.

I miss her so.

Wearing New York & Company

Jenny