It’s a sad morning. Ms. Wally died suddenly this morning at 5:38 a.m.
If you don’t readily remember Ms. Wally from her frequent appearances on these pages, she was a 17-1/2 year old gray cat that we rescued, along with her sister, after they had been dumped onto busy Kahekili Highway as kittens back at the beginning of 1998. She was feisty, and could be demanding. And persistent, such as when she wanted to be in your lap.
Wally got her name because we were driving into Honolulu on that Saturday morning to attend an auction, intending to bid on a set of Wallace sterling silver. Instead, we came home with the two kittens, Wally (formally Wallace) and Kili, short for Kahekili, the place of the rescue.
This morning, Wally had eaten a small serving of dry cat food from a dish on the counter during the early feeding about shortly after 5 a.m., and then, as usual, had been lobbying for some canned food. I had a can out warming up, while I went over to my computer to check the day’s news.
Meda was out of bed shortly before 5:30. Everything seemed normal.
A few minutes later, Wally let out a loud yowl. It wasn’t the first time, but this time was different. The yowl extended. I couldn’t see what was going on, but I could see Meda’s frantic reaction. I leapt out of my chair and across the room to the kitchen, where Wally had collapsed on her side, on the floor in front of the refrigerator, and was scrambling feebly to get up. Her mouth was open, as if panting, struggling for breath.
I think she had a heart attack, although it could just as easily have been a stroke.
I thought she was gone almost immediately, but then she struggled again and almost got upright into a sphinx position, looking forward, still struggling for breath.
I had grabbed a kitchen towel to keep her warm.
From there, the end was quick, although the minutes seemed to take many hours to pass.
As regular readers know, Wally had been on a decline for two years, perhaps a little more. She lost her appetite, went through a couple of rounds of pills to enhance her appetite, steadily lost weight ever so slowly, and rounds of tests failed to identify the cause. I suspected that she had a cancer that couldn’t be located, and she was also suffering from declining kidney function. For at least a year, we’ve considered her in hospice care. Then recently it became obvious that she had a growing sore, or tumor, on her lip, making her face look lopsided and causing some additional difficulty eating. In recent photos, I chose an angle that avoided showing it directly.
She made her last trip to the vet on Sunday, a quick check to see if there was some way to make her more comfortable, and left with an appointment to return in a couple of weeks.
Now that won’t be necessary.
The good thing is that, despite all of her various issues, she lived well until the end. No extended hospital stay. No extraordinary measures. And she died at home, with us.
The sisters, Kili and Wally, have been a pair since their rescue at the beginning of 1998. Now the family will feel lopsided, with a void where Wally would have been.
Already her absence is obvious. This was the spot where she ate on the kitchen counter. I would warm up opened cans of cat food by setting them in the steam of the coffee maker. Then I would put her dish on that coffee cup so that she didn’t have to lean down so far to eat. She was the only cat with special permission to eat on the counter. And now the space is empty. Or perhaps, more accurately, it’s full of her memory.
Her regular spot on the bed at night may be briefly empty, but I think another cat will quickly move into that favored spot.
Goodbye, Ms. Wally.
Now there are five: Kili, Duke, Toby, Annie, and Romeo.
And here’s a photo of Ms. Wally taken last Friday, posing with Romeo.
And for old times, Ms. Wally in 1999, when she was just over a year old.
Also see: “Long Live Ms. Wally!“
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I am so sorry to hear what has happened today.
We also have five cats, but two of them are just a little over a year old. One will be ten this fall and the other two are almost eight years old.
How old are the other cats?
Oh no! 🙁
So sorry to hear of your loss.
Mr. Ian,
I’m very sorry for your loss. I certain agree with you that she was fortunate to live so well and then to make a quick exit.
We had a similar experience with one of our cats. Ilya let out a yelp and collapsed. Since she was still breathing, we rushed her to the vet, who gave her oxygen. She died while they were treating her.
Much sympathy to you and Mrs. Lind on the loss of your Wally. She hung in there as long as she possibly could, with your loving care. We have one cat in hospice care at home. I hope she can end her days here, instead of at the vet’s. In the meantime, we love her every minute, as you did Wally.
It is never easy to lose a cherished friend. I am so sorry for your loss.
She was loved and lived well. And left warm memories. We humans should do as well.
It’s losing family. I’m so sorry. You did well by her. She was a lucky kitty.
I am very sorry for your loss. I had a cat that died in almost exactly the way you described. I think it was a stroke – but am not really sure. I had to smile about Ms Wally’s special permission to be on the kitchen counter. Good for her. Every rule should have an exception. And your set up with the coffee cup for her food was brilliant. RIP sweet kitty.
We are so sorry for your loss. David shared some of his fond memories of Wally with me while shedding tears after reading your post. He always felt they had a special bond.
Yes, Wally loved it when David picked her up and gave her his attention. She would let him do just about anything, and she loved it. Thank you, David, for all those times.
Thank you for taking great care of her. It’s good to know she died quickly at home with her family.
I will miss seeing her beautiful eyes almost as much as you guys. She was blessed to share her life with you.
Sorry for your loss Ian :(.
RIP Ms. Wally
I am so very sorry for your loss. You and Meda gave her a very good life, better than she would have had had you not brought her home with her sibling. I can just imagine, though, the frenzy you were in when she collapsed, and the grief you now feel. Please accept my sincere sympathy. It just never is easy.
How powerful a presence is her absence:
No Sheba naps, curled on the counterpane,
Or sits by the window to memorize the rain,
Or tussles with the tassels of a valance
With tigress energy and murderous talons,
Or attends with steady gaze the slow routine
Of household duties droning round again
From her vigilant bookshelf eminence.
The armchair seems not empty but incomplete
And the patch of sunlit rug unoccupied
More vacant than the sky when the moon is hid
In the cavern of December’s longest night.
The rooms were quiet when she was resident.
Now they lie silent. That is different.
Fred Chappell
Condolences…they have a way of wiggling into our hearts and insinuating themselves in the fabric of our lives, never to be forgotten.