Kerrigan
April 1999 ~ September 28, 2011
Like Niko, Kerrigan was born in my living room one morning in April of 1999. I remember how absolutely tiny she was as a newborn; she couldn't have been any bigger than a cigarette lighter. Her two brothers, Barney and Niko, were larger than she was, and at nursing time they tended to push her around and steal all the milk. Barney, in particular, was so bad about this that at first we called him Bruno because he was such a bully. Kerrigan would cry and cry, which is how she got her name. In a nod to a line from Southpark, I said, "You cry like Nancy Kerrigan!" I've named a lot of kitties, but Kerrigan stands out as my favorite kitty name ever, and it really suited her.
She also had more nicknames than any other kitty I've had, including but not limited to Care Bear, Bunny, Bun-Bun, Fluffleupagus, Fluff Muffin, Fluff Monster, and Bunny Bear. She was such a sweet girl, and was my constant snuggle buddy at night, always nestling into my shoulder and purring all night long. She had to be touching me in some way while we slept, usually resting one paw on my shoulder or face, and often poking me in the eye periodically with her sharp, sharp claws. I still have a minor poke-wound just under my right eyebrow from a few nights before she died, and I am sad that it is almost healed up now because every time I touch it and feel the itty-bitty scab, it reminds me of her. She also had a habit of chewing on my clothes while I slept, literally eating them as if she were a goat. I had to pull the covers all the way up to my neck if I didn't want my pajamas to be eaten. I have a couple of t-shirts with holes eaten in them, and I will keep them forever.
When Kerrigan was about five years old, one night I discovered an abscess on her hind quarters and remembered that I'd broken up a fight between Bucky and Kerrigan several days prior. Apparently Bucky had bitten her on the ass and, because of her long hair, I hadn't noticed anything amiss until it abscessed. I took her to the emergency animal hospital, as it was around ten p.m. and a holiday weekend, to boot. They had to perform some minor surgery and when I picked her up a few hours later, she was wearing an E-collar to prevent her from pulling out the drain tube and sutures. I carried her around the house with me for the next two or three days, putting her in my lap when I'd sit down, and snuggling up with her in bed at night. The morning after her surgery, she woke up and immediately freaked out about the E-collar. Before I could stop her, she jumped off the bed, ran down the hallway, and threw herself down the stairs, knocking off her E-collar when she hit the front door at the bottom. I picked her up, made sure she hadn't injured herself, and put the collar back on her. The next morning, the exact same thing happened. It was like she would forget overnight that she was wearing the collar, and then get scared when she woke up with it on. It was comical and sad at the same time.
She recovered just fine from her ass bite surgery, but after that she took up residence in the bedroom and rarely left it. I was so accustomed to seeing her upon walking into the bedroom that it seems completely empty without her.
Kerrigan never fully recovered from the epidemic intestinal infection that swept through my feline population last summer, taking Amos and Niko with it. She went through several rounds of antibiotics and had to take medication to control her frequent vomiting. Last fall she was also diagnosed with a collapsed lung. We never knew what caused it and there was no way to reinflate it. She also developed asthma, which required nebulizer treatments and scared me since I knew she had only one lung. I knew that it was going to shorten her lifespan, but I hoped she'd have at least a few years left.
Last Tuesday night, I went to bed shortly after midnight and Kerrigan snuggled up with me just like she always did. She was nestled into my shoulder when, fifteen or maybe thirty minutes later, she suddenly sat up, gasping for air. I thought she was having an asthma attack and hurried to grab her blanket and get her into her carrier for a nebulizer treatment. Everything happened very quickly and, as I'd taken an Ambien before bed, it felt like a dream sequence. I noticed as I picked her up to put her in her carrier that she seemed to have vomited on the bed and she seemed to have gone limp. I did the nebulizer treatment anyway, and when I took her out of her carrier afterwards, she was dead. I know now that she was already dead when I put her in the carrier. There was foam in her mouth and what I thought was vomit on the bed had actually been her bladder emptying as she died. Apparently, her other lung had collapsed.
As I was home alone and all doped up on Ambien, I called my dad, who is a night owl and was still up at around 1:15 a.m. when I called, thank goodness. He came over and drove us to the emergency animal hospital, where we dropped Kerrigan off to be sent for cremation, and then took me home and helped me change the bed linens.
Since we lost Niko a year ago, Barney was Kerrigan's sole remaining littermate and was also her best buddy. He spent much of his time hanging out on the bed with her and usually snuggled up with us at night. He'd been snuggling with us on the bed when she died and was inconsolable after I got home from the animal hospital. He spent the rest of the night walking in circles around the bedroom, crying. Fortunately, there are plenty of other kitties in the house to keep him company, and Oliver seems to have stepped up to fill the snuggle void. I can tell Barney still misses his sister, though, and so do I.
I take comfort in the fact that she went quickly, and up until the moment she died, she was happy. She died doing what she loved most in the world -- snuggling into my shoulder while I drifted off to sleep.
Rest in peace, sweet Kerrigan. We will miss you forever. You were loved so very much.
Like Niko, Kerrigan was born in my living room one morning in April of 1999. I remember how absolutely tiny she was as a newborn; she couldn't have been any bigger than a cigarette lighter. Her two brothers, Barney and Niko, were larger than she was, and at nursing time they tended to push her around and steal all the milk. Barney, in particular, was so bad about this that at first we called him Bruno because he was such a bully. Kerrigan would cry and cry, which is how she got her name. In a nod to a line from Southpark, I said, "You cry like Nancy Kerrigan!" I've named a lot of kitties, but Kerrigan stands out as my favorite kitty name ever, and it really suited her.
She also had more nicknames than any other kitty I've had, including but not limited to Care Bear, Bunny, Bun-Bun, Fluffleupagus, Fluff Muffin, Fluff Monster, and Bunny Bear. She was such a sweet girl, and was my constant snuggle buddy at night, always nestling into my shoulder and purring all night long. She had to be touching me in some way while we slept, usually resting one paw on my shoulder or face, and often poking me in the eye periodically with her sharp, sharp claws. I still have a minor poke-wound just under my right eyebrow from a few nights before she died, and I am sad that it is almost healed up now because every time I touch it and feel the itty-bitty scab, it reminds me of her. She also had a habit of chewing on my clothes while I slept, literally eating them as if she were a goat. I had to pull the covers all the way up to my neck if I didn't want my pajamas to be eaten. I have a couple of t-shirts with holes eaten in them, and I will keep them forever.
When Kerrigan was about five years old, one night I discovered an abscess on her hind quarters and remembered that I'd broken up a fight between Bucky and Kerrigan several days prior. Apparently Bucky had bitten her on the ass and, because of her long hair, I hadn't noticed anything amiss until it abscessed. I took her to the emergency animal hospital, as it was around ten p.m. and a holiday weekend, to boot. They had to perform some minor surgery and when I picked her up a few hours later, she was wearing an E-collar to prevent her from pulling out the drain tube and sutures. I carried her around the house with me for the next two or three days, putting her in my lap when I'd sit down, and snuggling up with her in bed at night. The morning after her surgery, she woke up and immediately freaked out about the E-collar. Before I could stop her, she jumped off the bed, ran down the hallway, and threw herself down the stairs, knocking off her E-collar when she hit the front door at the bottom. I picked her up, made sure she hadn't injured herself, and put the collar back on her. The next morning, the exact same thing happened. It was like she would forget overnight that she was wearing the collar, and then get scared when she woke up with it on. It was comical and sad at the same time.
She recovered just fine from her ass bite surgery, but after that she took up residence in the bedroom and rarely left it. I was so accustomed to seeing her upon walking into the bedroom that it seems completely empty without her.
Kerrigan never fully recovered from the epidemic intestinal infection that swept through my feline population last summer, taking Amos and Niko with it. She went through several rounds of antibiotics and had to take medication to control her frequent vomiting. Last fall she was also diagnosed with a collapsed lung. We never knew what caused it and there was no way to reinflate it. She also developed asthma, which required nebulizer treatments and scared me since I knew she had only one lung. I knew that it was going to shorten her lifespan, but I hoped she'd have at least a few years left.
Last Tuesday night, I went to bed shortly after midnight and Kerrigan snuggled up with me just like she always did. She was nestled into my shoulder when, fifteen or maybe thirty minutes later, she suddenly sat up, gasping for air. I thought she was having an asthma attack and hurried to grab her blanket and get her into her carrier for a nebulizer treatment. Everything happened very quickly and, as I'd taken an Ambien before bed, it felt like a dream sequence. I noticed as I picked her up to put her in her carrier that she seemed to have vomited on the bed and she seemed to have gone limp. I did the nebulizer treatment anyway, and when I took her out of her carrier afterwards, she was dead. I know now that she was already dead when I put her in the carrier. There was foam in her mouth and what I thought was vomit on the bed had actually been her bladder emptying as she died. Apparently, her other lung had collapsed.
As I was home alone and all doped up on Ambien, I called my dad, who is a night owl and was still up at around 1:15 a.m. when I called, thank goodness. He came over and drove us to the emergency animal hospital, where we dropped Kerrigan off to be sent for cremation, and then took me home and helped me change the bed linens.
Since we lost Niko a year ago, Barney was Kerrigan's sole remaining littermate and was also her best buddy. He spent much of his time hanging out on the bed with her and usually snuggled up with us at night. He'd been snuggling with us on the bed when she died and was inconsolable after I got home from the animal hospital. He spent the rest of the night walking in circles around the bedroom, crying. Fortunately, there are plenty of other kitties in the house to keep him company, and Oliver seems to have stepped up to fill the snuggle void. I can tell Barney still misses his sister, though, and so do I.
I take comfort in the fact that she went quickly, and up until the moment she died, she was happy. She died doing what she loved most in the world -- snuggling into my shoulder while I drifted off to sleep.
Rest in peace, sweet Kerrigan. We will miss you forever. You were loved so very much.
posted by Catherine at 10:52 PM
4 Comments:
So sorry to hear about your loss.
Thanks, Pounce. She was a really special kitty. I miss her a lot.
Hope everything is well with you!
Gosh talk about guttered, my cat Bobby was knocked over by a car on Monday. He died in a neighbours garden.
I'm more distraught about him having to die on his own, than I am over him getting hit by the car. At least the man driving the car, knocked on the door.
Poor bobby.
Oh, no! Poor Bobby. I'm so sorry, Pounce.
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