Well, it was 1990. Nelson Mandela was released from prison. East and West Germany were reunited. And I got a cat. I was living in Eshowe then and went to the local SPCA where I was shown a whole cageful of kittens. All mewing and climbing the wire mesh and generally being active. All except one. She was a tabby, sitting quietly in the centre of the cage with her tail curled around her front paws, just observing her brothers and sisters. Not a difficult choice really. She had such a pretty face!
I’d only had Jenny a couple of weeks when she developed an eye infection. The vet gave me some powder (Powder!!!) to put in her eye. The infection cleared up but I remember thinking “why can’t they provide this in ointment form?” Imagine putting powder in your eye!
She became a very vocal cat. Maybe there was some Siamese in her ancestry. But she would talk. Non-stop at times. Not that she always wanted something, she just liked talking. One of her favourite positions was to lie around my neck and lick my hair. She was always a happy cat, and whenever being stroked she used to drool.
She must have been about two months old when I got her, born in early January 1990. It would have been nice if she was a record-breaking cat when it comes to age. But eighteen and a half isn’t bad. That’s around 85 in human years. She’s a grand old lady. She went through 6 months quarantine when I brought her to the UK in 1994.
But she’s lost her appetite, her paws aren’t working properly any more, she can’t walk very far, and she’s been having little “accidents”. She spends most of her time curled up on a cushion in the downstairs bathroom, near her litter tray. She can’t even use that properly any more.
So tomorrow it’s the last ride to the vet…
It’s not an easy thing.
It is time.