Remembering Pixi

Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of the death of a very dear family member, our cat, Pixi-Paws.  Pixi was actually our daughter, Laura’s fifteenth birthday present.  We drove to our local Humane Society so Laura could make the choice herself.  She even had the name picked out before we got there, although Pixi ended up being anything but small.  Pixi was around 6 months old when we adopted her and soon grew to be a very round girl.  Although Pixi was definitely Laura’s baby, she became beloved by all of us.  When Laura went off to college and then was unable to take her afterwards, she remained with us.

Pixi was not your normal cat.  She was very talkative and tended to squeak or chirp rather than meow.  And she would come when we called which almost never happens with a cat. Perhaps it was because she thought food was involved.  Pixi lived to eat and would spend long periods of time waiting for her next meal.  Although she was a lot to hold, she loved to be cuddled and would often lick our faces.  She didn’t discriminate either.  Dogs were okay with her.  She would hang out with our dogs if allowed.  Late in her life, I observed her licking our dog, Piper’s head several times; Piper seemed to like it.

Pixi tried to hunt with little success.  It was comical to watch her run with her fat swinging from side to side.   Our other cat, Mandy, was an excellent hunter, but didn’t care to eat her prey so ended up supplementing Pixi’s diet.  As Mandy aged and stopped hunting, somehow Pixi began catching things.  Amazingly, one day she managed to catch a squirrel—and immediately ate it.  (I am so glad I didn’t witness that one.)

Pixi had her share of adventures.  She may have been loveable, but she was certainly not the brightest cat I’ve ever had.  There was the time she disappeared for 3 days.  We looked all over, called her name, asked our neighbors.  Our yard is an acre and we combed every inch.  I had to call Laura, in college at the time, and tell her Pixi was missing—she was heartbroken.  One afternoon, I began yelling her name from our deck.  I thought I heard something so I kept yelling, following the noise, getting closer and closer to a very plaintive meow.  I ended up standing next to our neighbor’s house and there was Pixi.  She had fallen into the well of the house’s crawl space.  I needed to jump down to grab her.  I had one happy cat and a very relieved daughter.  Pixi ended up stuck in a crawl space one time after that, only that time it was under our own house.  We figured out that both times she had probably been startled by fireworks and had tried to hide.

Pixi could be very territorial.  It took us a while to figure out that it was our sweet cat starting the fights with neighbor cats, resulting in visits to the vet.  Then there was the time I spotted her running to the back of our yard after a raccoon; you can bet I retrieved her very quickly.  One day I was gazing out the back door and I noticed a fox running around our large evergreen tree, running from something.  To my astonishment, Pixi appeared—the fox was running from Pixi!  Suddenly the fox stopped and turned around, a sort of “wait a minute” moment.  Now, the next minute might have been immensely entertaining, but envisioning another trip to the vet, I quickly opened the door and yelled, scaring the fox away.

Although Pixi was generally sweet and cuddly, she became a tiger when we tried to put medicine down her.  We would roll her in a towel, Bob would straddle her and hold her, yet she would still somehow manage to scratch or bite me or spit out her medicine (the pink stuff was the most delightful).

Pixi’s weight became a concern in the latter part of her life, requiring a special diet.  Mandy’s food was put up on the counter since Pixi could not jump up well due to her size.  However, she was always looking for ways to sneak food.  She could pry open cabinets with her paws; we had to tie them closed. She would get up on the small bookcase in the next room and peer around the doorway longingly.  When we weren’t watching, she would jump onto a kitchen chair, next to the table and somehow (it should not have been aerodynamically possible) she would jump across to the kitchen counter and run around to Mandy’s food.  It took a concerted effort to get this cat’s weight down.

By the fall before her death at age 11, Pixi began to have kidney problems.  She seemed to improve, then became very ill in January of last year.  The vets did what they could.  She mostly stopped eating, totally uncharacteristic for her; my encouragement did little to persuade her to eat.  I was stuffing special veterinary food down her throat and sometimes injecting fluids.  As we approached the end of February, it became clear that there was no hope.  It was difficult to watch her fade away.  Bob flew out of town on February 25 (my last day on my job).  Before he left, he dug a hole for me.  By this time Pixi was so weak that I moved her from place to place.  On Saturday night, February 26, I put her in her favorite spot on the couch, then sat next to her and spent the evening there.  Periodically I talked to her, petted her, and told her I loved her.  At one point she picked up her paw and placed it on my hand which was next to her, sort of an acknowledgement of me, I think.  It is hard to express what this little cat gesture meant to me—I will never forget it.

That night I placed Pixi in her cat bed.  In the morning she was very limp but still alive.  I put her back in her favorite spot; she was so cold that I covered her with a blanket.  I left for church and when I returned she was gone.  Tears flowed.  Laura called me before I could call her.  I broke the sad news to the rest of the family.  It was tough, but I managed to bury her before dark.  Her grave is now marked by a headstone from Laura and a bright bunch of artificial daffodils.

I can’t believe an entire year has passed, my dear Pixi.  I still miss you and will never forget you.