Emily J. Hynds

I wrote this in January, just a few days after Dizzy died. It was performed at GUST in March 2024.

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I got COVID at the tail end of the holiday season. About two weeks later, my oldest cat died. And the day after that, I started my period. These events don’t seem connected, but also … are they???

Yesterday, I made the choice to pay another person to kill my cat. My ward of 19 years. It both does and does not feel like the right thing to do. And today, my house smells like death, even though she didn’t die here. Although I think she has been sort of dying for a while now. We also euthanized our dog about six months ago, and I still haven’t written about that. I’ve been thinking about that too. Why I don’t want to write about my dead dog but I do want to write about my dead cat. What does this say about my relationship to them both? Thoughts for another day.

She came into my life 19 years ago as a two eyed kitten with a lot of spunk, and she left it yesterday as a one eyed old lady with notably diminished levels of spunk.

Yesterday at the vet, everyone kept exclaiming “19!” when they found out how old she was, and congratulated me on keeping her alive that long. The consensus, yesterday, was that 19 was a long time for a cat and that it was time for her to move along. I was totally on board with this consensus as well. But I was also thinking that if this was my son, and yes I thought son and not daughter I don’t know why, even though Dizzy was female, that 19 would be considered very young and it would be a great tragedy for my son to die at this age, especially if I, his mother, was still alive.

When we were younger, some of my friends liked to call her Dr. Cat, always said in a dramatic way that you might introduce a villain in a movie, because she only had one eye and was kind of evil, or another way to say it could be that she had a lot of personality and liked to fuck with you. One of the first fundraisers we did for BooTown was a fake fundraising party called Dizz-aid where we were (ostensibly) raising money to buy Dizzy a new eye. Party goers received an eye patch and a red plastic solo cup with their entrance fee. There was a pitcher of mojitos in the fridge, beer iced down in the washing machine, and dancing in the dining room. I would pay good money to see pictures from that party. There was a “dizzaid” banner and everything.

I would also pay money to see photos of her kitten years. This was many computers ago. She was basically still a kitten when we had to get her eye removed, which was even cuter. A little baby with one eye and a cone. I loved her so much.

One reason why it doesn’t feel right to put them down, I think, is because we are supposed to take care of them. Dizzy was very old and ailing, so it makes sense. But I remember really feeling that way when it was time for our dog to go. That was more of a surprise, we didn’t see it coming — her quick illness and very rapid decline, and I remember feeling more angry, like the rights that I had, as her caretaker, and the person in charge of her well being, were being trampled upon. And it was very rude.

Dizzy had the softest fur and I know that a lot of people say that about their cats but I really mean it. You can ask other people that met her, they will agree. She was very memorable by default. You don’t come across a one-eyed creature very often, cat or otherwise. She was a people-cat; she always came to say hello at parties and loved to get pet. In my experience, this is not unheard of for cats per se but is unusual. She was not skittish, she often seemed unflappable, like she had really seen some shit. But, what, in her little sheltered indoor-cat life could she really have seen to make her that way? It’s still a mystery to me. An ex and I got her together, and when we broke up, there was some debate about who should get her. I won, obviously, and it felt like winning a custody battle. Not once, at the time or since, have I felt bad about that. This cat is, and always has been, mine. Some things you just know, you know? She was mine, and there was never any doubt in my mind that I should be the one responsible for her. We belonged together.

She gave me cat scratch fever once when I was trying to help her get out of a laundry basket she was stuck in. I had never considered that cat scratch fever was real, until I got it. I had an actual fever and my lymph nodes swelled, basically a bacterial infection, I later learned. She lived with two long term boyfriends, at least ten apartments and/or houses, 4-5 roommates, and lastly, one husband, who wasn’t emotionally attached to her like me, but he was a good cat dad. She whistle-snored when she slept. She liked to be scratched at the verrrry absolute most tip of her chin, which is weirdly what I think I will miss the most. She was a pain in my ass a lot of the time and I loved her so much.

Today I woke up at 4:30am thinking about her, crying about her, writhing in discomfort because I had just started my period, reliving her final moments, thinking about her little tiny body and her bad hips and her soft fur that I will never touch again in this life. My gut wrenching in pain, in part because of menstrual cramps and in part because my little girl didn’t come back with me from the doctor’s office. Which I knew she wouldn’t, I took her there with the intention for her to die, but still. We just spent two weeks convalescing together, but I was the only one getting better while she was just getting sicker. She was my cat and I was her person and it’s a grave responsibility to be in charge of another creature’s life. What business did I, a mere twenty year old youth not even living on my own, have taking that on? What made me think I could take care of her? It’s still a mystery to me. But I never had any doubt. I knew from the moment I saw her, that tiny baby with the fucked up eye and the bad case of ear mites and the SASS, I knew that she was mine and I was hers and that we would be together for the rest of her little life.

Read more: It’s still a mystery to me … a story about my dead cat