Thea, April 1990 - March 13, 2009

by Erika Matthews
(Boise, ID )

When I was 16 years old my parents finally succumbed to my lifelong wish to have a cat. We made the trip to the Humane Society and perused the cages of cats. Many of them were "multi-family units," mama cats caged with their babies.

I carefully considered the cats in each cage, finding some cats more or less cute. Some were more or less playful than I desired. My parents had said that the cat only needed to be of female persuasion. Other than that, it was my choice. Or was it?

As I bent forward to examine a cage of black-and-white kittens, I felt a little paw shoot out and bat at my hair. I turned to the source and my blue eyes met with the wide green eyes of a tabby mix. Her fur was pure white. She had what looked like thigh-high stockings and a raccoon tail. Her nose was a charming baby pink.

I knew at this instant that this was THE KITTY. After getting confirmation that she met my parents' criteria of being female, the adoption arrangements were made.

A half-hour later, we rode home in the car. since we were lacking a car carrier, the Humane Society had provided a cardboard box in which to transport the newest member of our family. But I couldn't resist lifting the 8-week-old puffball out of her container.

The kitty responded by persistently licking my face. She licked and licked as if she couldn't get enough. I swear I hadn't bathed in catnip before the visit, but you couldn't tell that from her behavior. My dad said that she probably liked my makeup. Even at the time I was convinced that she was saying, "Thank you for saving me."

From that point forward we were devoted companions. She was always there in my twenties when I stayed out to the bars too late and/or was crying over the latest heartbreak. When I was in college she sat on my History books and served as my muse. She always knew when I was sad and came to snuggle. Her purr was the most soothing sound I have ever heard in my life.

Thea (she told mer her name) had the habit of rolling onto her belly when strangers were around. They would take this as a sign that she wanted her belly rubbed. But she wasn't a dog. As soon as their innocent fingers reached to stroke her bunny-like fur, her paws latched on, claws sinking in. Those who knew her always referred to this laughingly as Thea's "hand trap."

It was this blend of feistiness and snuggliness that endeared Thea to everyone she knew. She commanded respect but was incredibly perceptive and loving.

Thea was there when I graduated from college. She moved with me when I purchased my first house. She sat on my lap while I spent long hours planning my wedding.

Thea was diagnosed with Chronic Renal Failure at the age of 18. She became a shadow of her former self. She didn't snuggle. She was hiding away and showing no interest in food. She would lay on the floor in an odd place betweeen two rooms, as if she had been trying to go to living room but the journey was too long to complete.

Thea's life no longer contained any joy. Faced with the decision of watching her starve or subjecting her to the trauma of intra-venous and subcutaneous fluids (with no guaranteed result), we decided it was time to let her go.

The night this decision was made, I told Thea. For the first time in weeks, she rolled over onto her belly and started purring. I slowly stroked the bunny-like fur, tears streaming down my face. As I listenend to her wonderful purr I realized that she was thanking me again, like on the day I brought her home for the vet. This time, however, she was thanking me for letting her go.

I love her and miss her every day.