I'm writing Ophelia's obit before her death because after the deed is done, and she has gone limp while draped around my neck, I will not be able to write it. 
Ophelia is a grey tabby whose life spans these last tumultuous 17 years. Years in San Francisco and Berkeley, the deaths of my parents, the passing of many heroes in my existence, my becoming a legal resident, the publication of 'Nothing But The Girl', my 12 year relationship (and it's ending), buying a home, and many other obsessions, preoccupations, depressions, elations and my animal house existence - which Ophelia would comment on with that withering, weary 'oh not again' look, as I would open the front door with another pup and declare to all 'it's only going to be here for a day or so'.
Ophelia was born just days before my mother died, in August 1990. She was, from the start, a cat whose every fur strained at the restrictions placed upon her. Indoor cat? Fat chance. From the moment she arrived in our Bernal Heights flat at the age of 6 weeks, she swatted at the windows, scraping at them to burst out. So, when I gave in, she promptly dislocated a back leg performing circus tricks on the wrought iron gate outside the apartment. 'Keep her indoors' admonished the vet. Yeah, Ok, right. Pheelie would not, could not be containe
d, and sped around the neighborhood dragging her red bandaged cast behind her. It thudded down the sidewalk, which only marginally slowed her down.
She was beautiful. Of course. Massive round green eyes, glints of orange peeking through the thick gray tigerstripe, and a voice like burnished hockey blades, a little on the sharp side. Her good point? She came when called. From the back of our flat overlooking the hills of Noe Valley and Twin Peaks behind, I could open the window and yell 'Ophelia, get the fuck back here, right now' (much as I yell at Roo in the park these days), and she would appear, a gray flash in the distance, racing across roofs and under fences and up ramps, jumping up onto a deck and another roof until finally she streaked in the front window which we kept cracked just wide enough for her to squeeze through.
At home, she lived for comfort. Often that meant scraping the flesh off my neck or chest, as she leapt from whatever surface she was on, onto my shoulders and down into a pancake wrap around my neck. And there she would lie. For ever. No matter what I was doing.
She is not the cat, today, that she was. And if that sounds like stating the obvious, it is why I am having her euthanised while she still seems to enjoy small pieces of life and not waiting until she has given in. She has long suffered from some indeterminate gum infection and possible stomach irritation, yet in spite of tooth extractions, antibiotics, bloodwork etc, the vets can't give a definitive diagnosis. That doesn't make it any easier. But she is wasting away and has trouble eating. She seems cold and starving. It is my obligation, though I hate having it be so, to make this decision that I believe she would make, but cannot. It will be the most humane death - surrounded by people who love her, and draped around my shoulders, which will shake with grief.
My friend and hero, June Jordan, wrote her own obituary, knowing full well that someone else could not possibly do it as well. She had asked me whether, with her words, she could send out a photo I had taken of her, which she loved. I am hopeful that were Ophelia to read this obit, that she would say 'Not bad'. But she would add 'Why no photos of me outdoors? And why didn't you tell them about the time I...and then there was the time that....'
Safe travels on those nimble 'lil cat feet.
Posted by: Jan | July 20, 2007 at 08:48 AM
My condolences for beautiful Ophelia, Jill. I lost my long time companion, Maggie aka El Gato Kitty last June. I still feel her with me.
Posted by: Deb in Minnesota | July 20, 2007 at 10:12 PM