Queen Chloe

It’s been six months without Chloe. A very long six months of back to back losses and one of the most disruptive changes to our day to day lives. I know I’ll still see her curled up on the couch and hear her meowing outside the bathroom door for many more months, maybe years. I don’t know when I’ll stop thinking of 7pm as pill time, when I’ll no longer hesitate to accept social invitations because of cat care, and when I’ll talk about her in the past tense. I’ll probably always wonder if I’ll step on a hairball when I’m moving down a dark hallway. We shared 16 years together, longer than I’ve known most people. I became who I am with her and now feel in limbo without her.

Which is a feeling I never expected when we came together. I didn’t even want a cat. I was 23 years old and in my first full-time post-bachelor’s job. I had a bunch of roommates and a modest amount of money for the first time in my life but no savings or plan or any idea what I was doing. As a prissy-looking tortie, already named Chloe, she wasn’t at all the cat I’d have chosen for myself. Yet no one else seemed to want her, and she’d already been hit by a car once — chances were she wouldn’t walk away next time. I’ll probably never say no to a pet as long as I can care for one, so she came to live with me.

Around 4 years old, before she had any white whiskers. I forgot how much fluffier she was.

She came absolutely crawling with fleas and the foulest litter box. My dad had been caring for her, to use that word in the loosest sense, which meant little more than bargain kibble and house privileges. I gave her a flea bath (even though the fleas had already migrated to the carpet, which inexplicably extended into my bathroom) and bought higher quality food, and she seemed to settle into her new home quickly. One of my core Chloe memories, a formative experience for us, happened a month or two after she came to live with me. I’d left for a few days to go to a wedding out of state, leaving a housemate to care for her. When I got back, Chloe was on my bed in her “tucked” position (boat shape, feets curled towards each other under her chest, I loved it so much) with a distinct smirk. I approached the bed and saw a large wet spot right in the middle. It was fresh, probably only a few minutes old. Message received: she is not a cat to be left. I didn’t leave her alone for a long time after that, not until we had an understanding.

We went on a few road trips in the early years. This was coming back from Palm Desert, where I smuggled her into a hotel room.

A few months later I moved us into a tiny studio apartment, its ancient and quirky architecture, IKEA kitchen, and dorm-style community perfectly reflecting this new stage in my young adult life. It was my first roommate-less place, but I was never alone. Chloe learned she could trust me there, without the chaos of a housemate’s cats and the noise of a full house, and we developed a friendship. She helped me realize I should end a relationship when I would rather hang home with her. That summer she came with me on road trips and helped entertain guests in our cramped apartment (and through the window). I cried when I had to leave that place. We shared nine addresses in our 16 years together and she adapted to each new place right away. I believe she understood that I would always prioritize her.

Chloe had a silly side I loved so frickin much. Why did she need to be on this plastic bag on the floor?

That was tested when we moved in with the husband and Argo. Other than leaving her for a week shortly after getting her, forcing her to live with a dog was one of the worst things I did to her. Argo bounced between indifferent and curious and would have been friends had she been even remotely open to the idea. But Argo also literally bounced (and barked and ran and whined and panted super loud and was generally kind of a lot). She tolerated his presence but mostly tried her best to ignore him. Some of my favorite photos are when she chose to sleep with me and on me despite Argo also needing to be next to or on me.

My favorite.

My forever phone background.

I didn’t give her enough individual attention during those years. But the best part of this living arrangement was husband. Chloe adored the husband and showed her affection in her own unique ways. Like stealing chips right from his hand, something she never did with me. And sleeping on his chest in the minutes before he woke up, purring deeply (her purr was so powerful), so the first thing he’d see when he opened his eyes was her happy squint. And loudly insisting on sitting in his office chair, even when he had work to do, even when he was already sitting in it. And following his every movement when she thought he was getting a snack, even if it wasn’t a snack she should have or even something she’d want, then sitting at the table with him while he ate, patiently (sometimes) waiting for a taste. He loudly complained about her antics (“CAT. You’re ridiculous.”) but it was a farce. He adored the way she interacted with him and not-so-secretly beamed when she chose him over me. Which she did a lot. Like, all the time.

She put up with so much.

The six years we lived with Argo, Chloe was stereotypically cat: aloof, quiet, and small. She’d emerge from the guest room at night, sit with me while I did my work for grad school, and get her cuddles. After Argo passed, husband got to meet only-child Chloe, the way she was always meant to be. She was bigger, more present, demanding, confident, and blissfully happy to have a cuddle on the couch, watch a movie, and have a taste of the milk or ice cream or frosting from dessert. Even after the diagnosis, the one almost all cats get after a certain age, when we were sternly reminded to stick to her prescription diet only, we refused to refuse her.

She had different meows for husband and I. I read once that cats don’t naturally meow to each other, they meow just for humans, and that just like we name our cats, cats name their people. She also had different sounds for different actions. A mmwopp when she yawned. The brrrpt trill when we woke her from a nap, earning her the nickname Trillian for a minute. A slight aek when I entered a room she was already in. The clear mrow when she entered a room I was in. The very pointed MEOW for food, made either sitting in front of her bowl or behind me in the office when I didn’t notice the first mrow. The long, slow, sad mrooooow when we held her. And, of course, the mrooOOOWw in the middle of the night because of hyperthyroidism. I remember being both frustrated because it would wake me up and sad because I knew one day she would stop doing it.

Our two best friends were big fans of sassy little Chloe and she loved them right back. Husband’s best friend bonded with her when he stayed in our place for two weeks while we were on a trip, and continued to watch her (and our other pets) over the years. My best friend was in her life from the beginning and they got to know each other in my little studio. Chloe’s only beef with her was when she also adopted a female cat. She hated other female cats. Hated all other cats, including a very young kitten we found and held onto for a day, but just outright hatred for female cats. 

I looooooooved her toe hairs. I refused to trim them. I have a framed hairy paw print.

Fortunately, she didn’t hate our other pets. In fact, I’m convinced that Chloe thought our rabbits were her pets. She would sit in their area, sometimes directly on their rug, and simply observe. Until one of them hopped over to her, of course, then she’d hiss and move a few feet away. I caught her watching them all the time. In 2020 we brought home a few rats, but they were older and slower and not really all that interesting to her. I was relaxed about letting them share supervised space. One of the girls, Ruth, needed surgery right away, and afterwards we three sat on the couch together so Ruth could have free roam time during recovery. Ruth and Chloe came face to face on the couch, just curiously and cautiously sniffing. (A few minutes later Ruth got her teeth stuck in her staples and we had to drive like maniacs to get to the vet, but all turned out fine.) In 2022 when we brought home three baby rats, Chloe was a lot more interested. We did not have couch time together.

There are so many ways I got lucky with Chloe. She moved around with me with ease and tolerated a range of living situations. She begrudgingly let me pick her up and hold her, and was pretty easy to bathe and trim her nails. She came running to the door when I came home from work. She sat in the middle of the living room floor when we had people over, and would usually pick a lap to claim for the rest of the evening. She could handle a car ride if she wasn’t in her carrier. She had perfect litter box habits. She couldn’t jump too high because of injuries when she was hit by a car, so we never had to try to keep her off the counters. And she stayed off the coffee table on her own for the most part (sometimes she’d put just a paw on the table when she really wanted something on it. She was content inside and didn’t bolt the second the door opened. She was an easy purr, and her purr was so loud and strong and soothing.

And most of all, she was perfectly healthy and medically easy right up until Argo died. But that month, after he passed and we moved into a new apartment, she had to spend a night in the hospital for respiratory issues. I had never been more scared of anything in my life. When they said they had to keep her, and husband and I left the building, I sobbed like I’d only done once before in my life. I couldn’t lose her like that, in the same month we lost our dog, and in the hospital where she was scared and alone. She came home and her lungs were mostly fine after that, but I was always on alert. When husband and I got COVID we sent her to stay with his best friend just in case. She wasn’t young anymore. I wasn’t going to make a dumb choice and allow her to suffer the consequences. It was also after that hospital stay that she was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism, and a year later with kidney disease. We had two emergency room crises in her last few months due to kidney disease (my heart is racing just writing this). Once when she couldn’t pee: she tried to use the rabbit litter box, which she’d never think to do normally, so we rushed her in. The second, just a month later, was terrifying. We’d been giving her subcutaneous fluids for a few weeks to supplement her hydration, and after one session she walked into a wall. When she did it a second time, we again rushed her in. The doctor confirmed she was blind and tested her blood pressure. High was 160-170, and Chloe was over 260. They didn’t know how she was still alive. We got her to take a pill for the blood pressure and waited an hour to run the test again. Fortunately, she responded so well, BP down to 160. We took her home, expecting to have a blind cat. The doctor said there’s no way she would recover her eyesight (I don’t think she expected her to make it the rest of the night, to be honest), but over the next few weeks we saw obvious signs her eyesight had returned. By this point Chloe had become so angry at the near constant vet visits. We heard all sorts of euphemisms for her behavior: spicy, sassy, a fighter, vocal. I couldn’t blame her. She broke skin (mine), peed on vet techs, and had many notes in her file. Yet at home we had no issues giving her medication or the sub-q fluids. I could even do it by myself. I often wished our primary vet saw her at home.

Her professional portrait.

Kidney disease was like quicksand. It felt like the more we tried to keep the disease from progressing the more it did. One routine blood work check up I was so sure we’d see a decline in her numbers because she had been doing so well with the fluids and eating her medicated food. I even agreed to a different doctor because I was so confident. When the doctor said the numbers were higher than ever, I felt so defeated. Our girl was eating medicated food she didn’t love, getting poked with a needle every other night, taking four daily pills, and it wasn’t helping. I read just about everything I could about the disease after the diagnosis, and more at every set back, so I knew that cats don’t recover. I just wanted her to feel ok for as long as possible. And when we did everything right, everything we could, and it still wasn’t enough, I realized that it really was a losing fight. Two moths later we made the decision with our vet that it was hospice time. And a month after that I made the appointment.

Up until shortly after her 18th birthday in October she’d been her normal self, even still tearing around the apartment randomly and jumping into her tall bed by my desk. But in the last three months she seemed to have aged quite a lot. Kidney disease, hyperthyroidism, and heart disease take their toll, and she was already such a small cat. When I realized I hadn’t heard her purr in a while, I knew. It’s beyond devastating to know that I heard her purr for the last time one day and didn’t even realize it. When she lay on my chest, the few times she chose me over husband, it was like therapy directly into the heart. She’d knead my soft spots and purr for an hour, usually drooling in contentment. Of all the things I knew was coming, I didn’t expect that. I called the same doctor who came over for Argo. I made her a plate of four different varieties of wet food, pumpkin, a mousse treat, and yogurt. She ate heartily, and when she was done I got a big spoonful of ice cream and she ate the whole thing. She did all this nestled in husband’s lap, which was where she stayed. The doctor said that in her state she might pass with just the anesthesia. I suspected it was going to take a lot more than that. And it did. Chloe had so much fight in a six pound package. I’ll never stop admiring her stubbornness, both throughout our 16 years together and in her last 16 minutes. I know she knew how loved she was. I hope she knew how much I appreciated everything she did for me.

Cat.

I’m a different person at 38 than I was at 23. I was always going to be a different person, but I’m different because of Chloe. She was curled up in my lap while I wrote most of my papers during grad school. She was just out of sight of the camera in many of my Zoom calls at work. She visited an office for my staff profile photo. She was on husband’s chest or back early in the morning and during afternoon naps. She sat in my lap at dinner and weekend breakfasts, even if it wasn’t something she wanted to eat. Almost always purring, even if we weren’t touching her, which was how she liked it. 

All four feets touching.

Gato. Queen. Girlie. Cat. Chlo. My most perfect cat.