Panther, Bird Whisperer

I have an affinity for black cats. I read all the time that black kitties, and black doggies for that matter, are the last to be adopted. I don't get it. You point me toward black, black/white, or fifty shades of gray, and I'm in. Other than ferals and strays, and a cool yellow Tabby guy named Moose that I had when I was a kid, I have only had kitties of the darker persuasion. It would be so easy for me to be a black kitty hoarder, but thank cat, I know my limits.

This little girl kitty started out in life with not the most perfect of conditions. I don't know how many litter mates she had because by the time I had met her, there was only her and her mother. Then, there was only her. Her mother was killed by a Doberman, but not before she had protected the last of her babies. I swear to the havens, that Mama cat fought to her last dying breath for the protection of that baby. I almost didn't say the breed of dog that killed her, but it's part of Panther's story, so there it is.  I'm not condemning Dobermans, but I'm not championing this particular one right now. All I know is that I rescued a teeny black kitten that day, and named her Panther.

At the time, I had a lot of guy friends. Guy friends who thought they knew better than me how to train and play with kitties. Guy friends who thought it was cute when they patted a leg and encouraged a tiny, one pound kitten to run up a denim clad leg. Guy friends who didn't see the future when said kitten would grow to be five pounds, with needle sharp claws, and still wanting to climb up legs, denim clad or not. It took me a lot of time to untrain that particular trick, both in the kitty and the guys.

Panther, being an outdoor cat, did things that most outdoor cats do. I apologize to my avian loving friends, but she was the bird hunter, the bird charmer. She would lay in the grass, minding her own kitty business, and a Blue Jay or Mockingbird would land on the fence in front of her. She would just chill, and wait, because she knew what was going to happen next. The bird, perhaps having a nest nearby to be protected, or in the case of a Mocker, just being an asshole, didn't know what was going to happen next, and would begin to dive bomb her, again, and again. She would not move, luring them closer with her feigned pacificity, making them more brave and thus flying lower with each swoop. And when they would least expect it, because they never did, she would somehow pogo herself up, stretch out her full length of felineness, reach out a deadly paw, and catch him in mid air. I hate to say it, but she was a thing of beauty, a furry killer ballerina.

I came home from work two weeks ago and found her stretched out on that same lawn, only this time in terrible distress. I picked her up and her body was a noodle. Her breath was coming in short pants and I knew this wasn't good. When I got to the clinic and during Panther's examination, the Vet looked at me with such sadness in her eyes. It was then I realized I had to let her go.  As the drug was being administered, I laid my head down next to Panther's, looking at her and blinking my eyes slowly, my left hand on her neck, my right on her side, telling her how much I loved her.

I buried her next to Boobie, my twenty year old cat that has been dead for ten years. May they rest in peace together.

 I have had a few people, most of whom have never had animals, ask if it's worth it. Is it worth it to watch a pet grow old? To turn grey and become feeble? To get a disease with no cure or to have no means by which to pay for that cure? Is it worth it having to make a heart breaking decision to put a pet down? As I sit here writing this, with one cat on my left showing me her fat tummy, another on my right, purring on the arm of the chair, and a third laying on the floor in front of me looking completely arrogant, I can say, without reservation, yes, it is.