Mourning for Cinnamon

One of my cats, Cinnamon, has come to the end of her life. We have been so closely bonded for 16 years. I can no longer care for her needs, and her body is shutting down even though her blood tests say only diabetes. On Monday I’m doing the compassionate, humane thing rather than watch her continued suffering. I’m grieving deeply and crying constantly. The bipolar makes the reaction more intense.

Here are some of the things I’d like to remember:

  • The first time I saw you peeking out the tiny cage at Marin Humane Society. Bright eyes, fluffy, fluffy 10-week-old fun.
  • Head cocked to the side in a flurry of kitten energy.
  • Running up and down the first cat tree and then the huge cat tree that looked like a tree. Fighting over who got to stay on top.
  • Her first Christmas running up the tree and knocking it almost over. Tried the next year, but adult body stopped her from going high enough.
  • Lying on my chest as I tried to read a book while in grad school.
  • Vegas-showgirl-looking tail when walking with it straight up. Getting a few tail hairs singed when walking by a candle – water on the tail right away!
  • Laser lights down the hallway and conference badges and strings. Getting aggressive on catnip, playful if it’s in a cigar-shaped toy.
  • Meeting me at the door with mews when young and meows when adult. Following me around from room to room.
  • Cat TV in Phoenix when we fed the birds in the morning.
  • Eating Tuna! Dancing around to get the plate on the floor fast enough.
  • Grooming Samantha cat on her head and neck, but not letting Sam do the same, until the last year of her life.
  • Sleeping between my spouse and I the first weeks, then between my legs for years. Sleeping on the end of any bed with a great blanket on it, often with Samantha. Sleeping in stylish beds that supported her larger, Maine-Coone-lineage stature. In her final home with just me and Samantha cat, sleeping altogether on the bed, the two of them in little cat beds.
  • “Prissy Paws” because she likes a clean litter box.
  • The morning ritual of sitting on my lap while I drink my coffee.
  • Cautiously exploring the backyards but only close to where I was. Learning to be on a harness and lead by following the laser light and realizing you can walk in those things!
  • 5 moves – 4 states and she still adapted, even as a senior.
  • Walking across my computer keyboard, my laptop keyboard, bumping the iPhone in my hand – pay attention to me!
  • Fear of the vacuum cleaner, running from room to room to get away.
  • Always aware of my feelings and moods, following me when needed, asking for lap time when I’m down.
  • Her sorrow when the red bag came out that meant I was going to the hospital. Her questioning looks when I returned to know if I was staying. Same when luggage came out for a trip. Deep sorrow to be left alone, even for a few days.
  • Communicating without words, the love and respect and bond we have with each other.


2 responses to “Mourning for Cinnamon

  1. I imagine that doing what you did, writing all your good memories, has got to wonders as far as the grieving process goes. I applaud you for doing it as I have a difficult time writing about loss.

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