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 19
years old, died 2004
With the greatest of sorrow, in the last two months
I have had to say good-bye to my oldest and dearest friends. At
the age of 19, Amy Sue and Otis James have left my life.
They were cats. Their love and constant devotion to each other for
19 years should be an example to us mere humans. I called them my
"little old married couple." Amy Sue was always the leader
of our little pride of cats through all those years, Otis her loving
suiter.
As they grew older and more feeble they were always together. They
cleaned each other in the spots they couldn't reach themselves.
Amy Sue never wanted Otis out of her sight. Fortunately, she died
first. It took two months for Otis to fade away and join her in
death.
He used to do what I called his serenade to his lady love. It was
a purring, singing, chirping sound. He did it only occasionally
and only in the presence of Amy Sue.
It was the coldest of days in the winter, too cold for Otis to sleep
alone in the barn after Amy Sue's death. I took him home to my apartment
to live out his last days in comfort. He was deaf and very unsteady
on his feet, but moved as quickly as he could as he looked for her
while he sang his song. He did this for hours, as if sooner or later
she would hear and come back to him.
The stress of losing his lifelong companion immediately began to
take its toll. His little old body was wracked with seizures, several
each day, until he could no longer get to the kitty pan. There was
no dignity left for him. It was time for me to let him go.
I always said that if I could find a man who could love me as much
as Otis did, I would be the happiest woman in the world: someone
who would look at me the way did with his beautiful, adoring face,
someone who would be as devoted to me as he was to Amy Sue.
And so I held him as he fell asleep in death. With sorrow and love
I said good-bye to one of my oldest friends. We should all be loved
like that, just once.
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