Sure, 17 years is a good run, but my heart and Gina's heart broke when she went from trotting to various parts of the house to limping and struggling, all of a sudden. We had no warning that Twyla, who was born on the same day that Olympia's Rachel Corrie died in the Gaza Strip, wouldn't make it to her 18th birthday next March.
The ER person took her from our car via her carrier into the veterinarian's, saying right away that Twyla didn't look well. Gina started sensing we were going to lose her but I was oblivious; I thought medication would fix everything, forgetting she had stopped purring and that her joy was disappearing. We were told that even that if we had the money for surgery that Twyla's system was breaking down and recovery was unlikely. My biggest shock was how fast it all happened.
In our most recent months together, Twyla ("Ms. T.") was my buddy during the time I stayed home from work during the pandemic--I was her protector from way back. We had to sequester her at night because the boy of the cat family, Pippin, was too aggressive with her. In the last few years, she became more confident and bold, spending her days at almost any spot she wanted in the house. Twyla had beautiful, symmetrical marks on her face and body and Gina sometimes called her "Tabby Sue." When all of our cats were young and getting along famously, Twyla gave her siblings "extreme baths." And I'm never going to forget how she looked up at me after finishing in the litter box, searching for approval.
One of the funniest experiences I had with Twyla was when she would hiss at her brother. She never had a big voice and her hiss was less so--it sounded like someone opened a bottle with just a tiny bit of carbonation in it. Twyla was playful, sleepy in recent years and damned stubborn. She loved the love she received from us, but when her face was stern, she reminded me of my Grannie, who died in 2000. We had a ton of affection for Twyla and the house feels wickedly empty right now.