She was the runt of the litter. Her eyes were the last to open. Her umbilical cord took weeks longer to fall off than the rest of litter's. But it wasn't until I took them in for their first checkup at the vet that we found out how special she was. Her name was Sweet Spot. Except for size - body size and the size of a black spot on her all white long hair - she was a twin to her brother Big Spot.

But names change. Big Spot eventually became Ace.com. Sweet Spot morphed into Princess Angel Hair Pasta because of the fineness of her long hair. Of course we didn't call her that, we just called her Princess.

The vet listened to her heart for a long time, pressing the stethescope on various spots to get the best sound. Then he told us. Heart murmur. Probably congenital heart defect. Probably won't live six months. he said.

Susan and I talked it over. Though the vet was suggesting that it wouldn't be unkind to simply put her down, we were agreed that we would not. We would care for her as best we could for as long as we could. She was enjoying her life and we couldn't see putting an end to it.

So of course we spoiled her mercilessly. When Susan's new house was finished earlier this year she took Ace.com and I kept Nadia, another litter-mate. We argued over who would keep Princess. I finally won because I work at home and she would wouldn't be alone as much, if and when the doctor's prediction came true.

To tell you the truth, I don't think Princess was much smarter than Ace, and he is legendary for being a dim bulb kind of cat. But she owned our hearts. She knew she was a princess, too. For one thing, her poopoo didn't stink. Nope, not a bit. That's why it was not necessary for her to cover it up in the litter pan. Her attitude was that someone else could do it if they thought it needed doing. She didn't.

Her breathing was always rapid. Whatever heart problems she may have had at birth contributed to or were in conjunction with lung problems as well. She may have simply been a little undeveloped at birth. We don't know. But we would watch her sleeping and see her sides going in and out almost twice as fast as the others. We knew she wasn't well.

At her annual checkup, the vet gave us a big treat. He listened for a long time, maybe even longer than he had the first time. Then he announced, the murmur is gone. We were ecstatic. We joked that Princess would outlive us all. Even though Princess was an indoor cat, we had her spayed, just in case she slipped out.

She loved to fetch. Susan would crinkle up the paper wrapper from a throat lozenge into a ball and throw it across the room. Princess would pounce on it, and if necessary swat it around a bit to make sure it was dead, then she would pick it up in her mouth and drop it on Susan's lap. For most of her life, it was her favorite thing to do. She would only do it five or six times in a row, though, because she would get winded and tired and want to rest. A princess's perogative, I suppose.

A few months ago, we discovered almost by accident that Princess also loved to get her long coat of hair brushed. In fact, that became her favorite activity. Probably because of her health situation, her coat never looked as nice and shiny and well groomed as her twin brother Ace. Susan decided to see if brushing her would help. That changed everything. She was still daddy's girl, alright. Right up to the time Susan showed up and offered to brush her coat. Then she was mama's baby for sure. She purred, she gave Susan chin bumps with the top of her head, she stretched out looking like she was smoking a cigarette after some particularly satisfying romp in the hay.

Yesterday afternoon and evening, I played a lot of fetch with her. She was in a good mood and feeling very frisky. We played longer than we usually did, and then we played again. She seemed the healthiest she had been at any point in her life. That makes what happened last night/this morning all the more bizarre.

At about 4 I was awakened by a cat calling. I thought it was Nadia, but when I located her it wasn't. Everyone else was in sight and accounted for, except for Princess. Ah ha, I thought. I must have accidently locked her in the closet. No, she wasn't there. I went into the bathroom and found her on a low shelf, laying on some towels. She called to me loudly. Her eyes were big. I told her to come but she didn't seem to be able to move.

I carried her to the bed. She just lay on one side. Then she cried as if in pain, or perhaps frustration. She was breathing through her open mouth. I knew that whatever it was, it was pretty bad. I suspected that she had had a stroke. I called Susan and told her what was happening. "I'm on the way" was all she said. I got a chair from the dining table and dragged it in to the bedroom. Then I sat in it, next to Princess on the bed and comforted her the best I could. I brushed her coat. I don't think she was really aware of it, though.

At 5:30AM I called the vet. Our regular doc, the one who had diagnosed her originally and on the followup, was on vacation, so we talked to his partner. Princess had taken to sleeping - passing out may be a better description - for five or ten minutes at a time. I recounted everything that had happened to a very sleepy vet when he called. "What's she doing now?" he asked? "Sleeping," I replied. He said that sounded good, to bring her in at 8:30, half an hour before they usually opened.

We dripped water into her mouth with a syringe. She seemed to like that. We also put an oxygen line near her tiny face, and before long her mouth shut and she began to breathe through her nose again. Every 5 or 10 or 15 minutes she would come to and complain loudly. One time she managed to get off the bed and crawl under it. But she was too weak to move again when we moved the bed to get her.

Finally, after the longest 2.5 hours in recorded history, we put her on a warm blanket in a wire covered basket, loaded her into the pre-warmed car, and headed to the vet. We made a rule. It had to be unanimous for her to be put down. If one or the other of us said no, then no it was. Period. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. I asked Susan if she had ever had a pet put down. She said no. I told her how quick and painless it would be. She wanted to know if she could hold Princess while they did it.

Just then, about 5 minutes from the end of the trip, Princess woke with a howl. She tried very hard to push her way out of the wire cover, I had to use one hand while driving to help hold her in. Her neck and back felt almost rigid they were so tense. Then she relaxed and Susan opened the cover to reposition her on the blanket. That's when she discovered that Princess was no longer breathing.

We went on to the vet's, but of course it did no good. An aide used her stethescope and shook her head sadly. We noticed blood starting to come out of her nose and her rear end. The vet was a few minutes late getting there. I didn't see any point in waiting, and as upset as I was at the time, I wanted to avoid seeing him when he did arrive. We brought Princess back home. More blood came out her mouth when we carried her inside.

She's buried now among the roses. The line of rose plants is now officially known as the Princess Rose Garden. Inside a Christmas box donated by Susan, one filled with years of love and tradition, we lay Princess down on a small soft towel. We put her hair brush inside, and a crinkled lozenge wrapper too. Her collar with an interim name (Sweet Spot) went in. I picked a couple of rose buds and dropped them in as well.

We don't know what killed her, but the vet suspects something other than a stroke because of the blood. He asked about rat poison, but we have no poison of any kind around here that we know of. Maybe she swallowed something. Maybe a hook from an ornament on the tree. I was worried she might have swallowed the toy we were playing fetch with yesterday, a twist-tie from a loaf of bread. But I found it later where we had been playing, so that wasn't it.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. We were given this wonderful little bundle of joy to care for as best we could. We knew going in it could be for only a short time. The pain in our hearts is huge. It's like losing a member of the family. As days go by, the pain will diminish and we will remember all the joy she brought to us. There have been many tears today. I know there will be fewer tomorrow, and soon I will be John Wayne tough again, the kind of guy who wouldn't ever shed a tear over something so ordinary as a cat. I hope it comes soon. I need some of that toughness now.

If you want to do something for Susan and I, do this: love the people and animals in your life as best you can. Every day. You just never know.

In Loving Memory of Princess

Copyright © Joe Barr
December 30, 2002