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Goodbye, Sweet Henrietta
My sweetest Henrietta died on Friday morning in my lap. I hope that my touch in her last conscious moments was comforting to her. She was attached to me as no other cat has ever been, and I to her. I found her in an actual trash pile in Brooklyn, NY, on October 17, 2011.
We had thought that she had arthritis since January of this year, and I had been giving her medication for that three times a week. Once a jumper who spent most of her time on top of the refrigerator, she had slowly relinquished her former heights until she spent most of her last few months on our bed, which is only 18 inches off the ground.
About a month ago we took her to the vet’s because she was having difficulty breathing. We saw that from about that time on her mobility was quickly declining. I began to have to carry her to the litter box because she couldn’t get into it on her own. Last Monday we took her in again and our vet realized that her mobility issues were neurological, likely due to a tumor somewhere on her spine. The vet gave her a steroid shot, which helped her for several days. Thursday she began having trouble breathing again, and that night I lay on the floor of the bathroom, where she had retreated, and thought that she would die there. I looked in her eyes and slowly blinked, the cat way of saying, “I love you.”
I watched both my mother and my brother-in-law die. I know what it looks like. I know what it sounds like. Henrietta had the same death rattle they had. She kept on coughing, then flopping over onto her other side. When she coughed, liquid came out. We give humans in such condition morphine, to relieve the pain. Henrietta had nothing. A few times I thought she had died, so I whispered, “Henrietta,” and she flicked her tail in recognition. At some point in the night, she seemed to rally, and dragged herself to the bed, but wasn’t able to climb onto it. I gently lifted her up, and she lay on my stomach for the rest of the night. She had never done this.
It took Henrietta almost five years before she sat in my lap the first time. When I found her she had been abandoned by her previous owners. (After they had her declawed.) She was left in an old carry case. I had seen it on a Saturday night, next to our trash cans in front of the Brownstone where we rented, and I assumed my landlady, who had a cat, was simply throwing out an old case. Monday morning when I was leaving for work, I happened to take out the trash, and as I was putting the lid back on the can, I happened to look down and I saw her staring at me through the mesh of the case. So I know she had been there for more than 36 hours. Alone. Abandoned. Terrified.
She lived in our bathroom for at least three months before emerging, tentatively. We would throw treats and dry food at her every time we used the bathroom, even from the shower. I would spend hours in there, not even paying attention to her, just sitting with my laptop reading or watching something. This is how she and I formed the bond I mentioned. Through time and patience and showing her that it didn’t matter what she did.
It was after we had moved to New Hampshire, in a house 5 times the size of our apartment, where our three cats had enough space for themselves, that she began sitting in my lap, or next to me on the chair, and eventually sleeping on the bed pressed up against my leg, or between my arm and my torso. In the last few months, I would often wake in the morning with her between my legs.
Friday morning I woke from not many hours of sleep. She was still on top of my stomach, her head pressed into my arm. I placed my hand gently on her side to see if she was still breathing. She was, barely. We took her back to our vet, who is a kind and learned woman. The vet first gave her a sedative, which put her into sleep. The shot, though, stung and Henrietta bit my wrist, drawing blood. It was kind of perfect, in a way, because one of the first things she ever did, right after I found her, was bite me. I have a scar from that first bite, and right now a scab from that last bite.
As she drifted off to sleep for the last time, she tucked her forehead into my arm one last time.
We buried her on our property. We have a burial site where there are now two cats, a dog (which belonged to a previous owner), and a woman (another previous owner). We have done our estate planning and left instruction for our own burial in the same site.
In many ways, I would like to murder the person who abandoned Henrietta. On the other hand, she brought so much joy into my life, and I hope I gave her sufficient love that in the end she had no more memory of the before time. So perhaps it was divine intervention. And that person is going to burn in hell, anyway.
RIP, Henrietta Edith Ivey. In my life, October 17, 2011, to October 30, 2020. She was perhaps 13 years old. I will make a headstone for her over the winter, from slate. The inscription will read “Sweetest One, although she bit me.”
This is about a dog, but it still applies. And it makes me tear up every time I read it, no matter how many times I do so. Right now after reading your post it’s making me sob like a baby.
I got a kitten in college, in September 1984. I named her Chandar. She was a brown tabby, and one of the greatest cats I ever knew. She was with me through all my single years until she died in January of 2001 – ironically, on the day I was supposed to have a first date with the woman I eventually married (17th wedding anniversary is this week).
My brother hates it when I say this, but it’s true. I cried more when Chandar died than I did when my dad died. Dad was less unexpected, and dad didn’t sleep curled up on my back every night for the last several years of his life.
My favorite thing was that she would “put me to bed” every night. I’d lay in bed reading, and she’d lay with her forearms on my right arm. Eventually I’d get tired, close the book and turn out the light. She’d stick around for a few minutes, then go patrol the house for a while before coming back up sometime during the night. In the summer she’d be down on my legs near the foot mof the bed. In spring and fall she’d be up by my back. In winter she’d usually nose her way under the covers with me.
Small animals fill a space in our hearts.
Max – I’m so so sad for you today. I’m happy that she had such a great kitty life because of you. Henrietta was one of the lucky ones. Hang in there! You will be ok.
Anyone who has ever loved an animal would cry at this. It reminds me that so many things in life are more important than politics.
Of one thing that I am certain though no priest I know will commit??? Animals have souls, too. No one can tell me anything different. Our time with them here is a gift.
I’m sorry for your loss.
You brought back memories of the loss of my pets. I know how it hurts. It’s like losing a family member. My sympathies.
Crying. So sorry. You saved her life once, and showed her love. That’s all we can really do in this world.
So sorry, Max, to hear of Henrietta’s death. It sounds like you rescued her beautifully and gave each other some very lovely years. How shockingly awful that someone would abandon her in the carry crate, with no ability to escape and seek food, water, or shelter. What a terrible excuse for a human. Nice that you have yard space for her final resting place. She’ll always be with you. Even if you move.
I remember Henrietta! What a lovely life and a good death you gave her, Max!
I’m sure she probably took a swipe at you if you tried to pat her. 😂
I’m so sorry. The love of a cat is as unique as they are. Your post reminds me of everything about our Tiger…we do miss him so. When we moved, I brought him with us. He rests under a little statue of a cat curled up, asleep by the birdbath. He was an indoor cat, so the birds were his entertainment.
She’s a torty, right? I had one of those in Phoenix for a while, she was great. I called her Torty-Girl, or sometimes Goldfinger in honor of one of her toes that was all gold color. On her last day, she sat and watched the little ones play, for hours, and then passed herself.
Yes, and Henrietta was a smoke tortie. My Miss O’Malley is also a tortie.
I didn’t even know that. Thank you.
Oh, she loved you so! What a good life you gave her, and she gave you.
Well, sad news to report this evening.
My Maggie has passed away. She was having what looked to be seizures this week and then this evening starting going through convulsions. I tried to see if she was choking on anything and tried to get her to push out any blockage to no avail. The next thing we knew she wasn’t breathing or responding. Earlier in the day, she was looking for some place to disappear, like the closet under the stairs. Cats sometimes know when they are dying and look for a quiet out-of-the-way place to pass away.
I just returned from the animal hospital and they will cremate her. She was a good kitty that had a very comfortable life. She was about 18+ years old because and was brought home after she was a year old. She was a shelter cat that a friend of ours felt she couldn’t adequately care for.
She shall be missed. I just conveyed the news to Ian, my autistic son, and he started looking around the living room for her. I don’t think he fully realizes that she is gone but may understand better tomorrow.
Here are some more photos of her:
I’m so sorry, Brian. Maggie was beautiful.
What can anyone say, particularly an animal lover? Bless you dear Max.
Well since people are showing pictures of their cats, here’s our Tiger. He’s our first cat. We’ve always had dogs and still do but when we found a kitten we couldn’t resist and have included him into our family.
The more general term is dilute, as in a dilute tortoiseshell or a tortie with the dilution gene.
Condolences to you and yours, Brian.
This is a nice inscription, but I don’t think it conveys the depth of her importance to you.
“Sweetest One; She bit me too for two”
It gets that she bit you also, gave two “impressions”, yet you are a pair.
Brian, condolences to you and Ian on the loss of your cat.
I’ll pray that Ian’s grief isn’t too destructively expressive.
My sympathies to you both.
We have a tiny Maine Coon mix that is our master and commander. She’s 18. I think of this every day.
You’re a lucky man to have known her, and she was a lucky cat to have known you. It’s what life is.
Meet Commander Saffron Floof, of the Palatka Floofs. Obey, and you can stay.
Winner, Best Cat Name Ever.
(Ours, who died last year, was named Edith Anne Furpopple, or Edie for short.)
One of our current cats is a tuxedo kitty with a Hitler mustache. She’s female, so I named her Eva.
Most people I have to explain the joke. My niece heard the name and instantly burst out laughing. I like my niece. She gets me.
I awoke this morning with tears behind my eyes — scared about this election. Your beautiful story of Henrietta and your love for each other released them. One never loses a cat without great sorrow and my heart goes out to you. Thank you for eulogizing her here, reminding all of us of life’s many exquisite joys and blessings.
Yes. She showed up in the driveway one day. I think she’d had a hard little life, just to that point, as her tail was only about 1 1/2″ long, not a mutation I don’t think. She was so tiny. The sort of cat that folks who wish cats could stay “kittens” all their lives would have loved. She had lung problems, and that’s what eventually did her in.
Well. I’ve always said that I was the only person immune from the strictures of those who say one should never use pet names as computer passwords because they are so easily guessable, but I may have met my matches here on Ricochet . . .