Over three years ago, I wrote this post and unabashedly proclaimed my love for our three cats. In the years since then, I find more posts have focused on Lily than on Rosie, Guillie, and Ozzy, but the furry trio still makes their cameo appearances here and there. However, the "cameo" title is limited only to this blog; in real life, they are title characters in our story, perpetually under our feet or snuggled on our laps every moment that we're at home.
Perhaps the quietest, the least likely to inform me of her needs but the most likely to be there to respond to mine, has always been Guildenstern. In fact, if I'm truly honest, I didn't pick Guillie out of the litter because she stuck out on her own; I picked her because of the way she was protecting her smallest sister, the tiny runt I already had my heart set on. As I watched the four kittens playing in a room full of rambunctious pets, time and again, I watched Guillie place herself between Rosie and a much larger cat or dog. It was undeniable: she was her sister's armor, and there was no thought of leaving the house with one and not the other.
In the sixteen years since then, I've seen that relationship play out more times than I can count. It is always Rosie who has tucked herself into the comfort of Guillie's body or who has watched her sister's lead in stalking a bird or squirrel out the window, just as it is always Guillie who has gone first at the vet or who has allowed Rosie to steal a few of her treats. We used to always joke that Guillie was "an Eyeore," carrying her personal rain cloud wherever she went, but I think our gentle jabs were inaccurate. Guillie is quite like Eyeore, but not in that way; rather, she is the Eyeore who reminds us that "a little consideration, a little thought for others, makes all the difference."
As Jeff frequently likes to remind both girls, he's now officially known them for more than half their lives: they were a mere 6 years old the night he first came to my apartment to make dinner and spent hours down on the floor with them, dutifully trying to figure out which cat was which (and dutifully laughing at my Top Gun references: "They just feel the need: the need to knead!"). And while he might not always admit it in Ozzy's presence, he has long had a deep love for Guillie. This doesn't surprise me, as they both approach the world in a similar way, watching first, carefully considering, and then perhaps taking just a wee nap before progressing further.
Guillie has always tolerated her world patiently. Whether it's the silly Christmas bells we place around her neck or the small addition to the family that arrived when she was gently aging towards 14, she lets us know her opinion of the matter not with claws or hisses but merely with looks and postures. She'd almost seem to say, "Yes, if you should need this amusement to make your day better, well, then, alright. But I don't like it."
And so it is with great patience--patience beyond either Jeff or my understanding--that Guillie has always approached Lily. Quietly snuggled by her side when she's sick, always waiting on the storytime blanket after bath, joyfully rubbing her face against a board book, dutifully watching from the window as Lily plays on the front walk, stoically enduring being carried from room to room by a clumsy toddler, Guillie has taught us what it means to be selfless.
And so these reasons are why--these and so many more--that it has been so hard to decide that it is time to at last release Guillie from all the pain her kidney and heart disease has brought her and allow her to peacefully take flight to a heaven full of warm laps and tuna on demand. When our home wakes up quite a bit emptier this Thursday morning, I think perhaps it is Lily who will miss her Guillie the most. For the past several days (since we knew this decision was imminent), we've tried explaining to her how wonderful it is that Guillie will get to be with Jesus in heaven. Lily always seems quite excited by this idea at first (for she knows how wonderful life with Jesus must be), but then she inevitably takes my chin in her little hands and turns my teary cheeks to hers: "But Guillie come back 'morrow, right, Mommy?" When I try to explain that she won't, Lily leans her sweet head against my shoulder and sighs, "I a little bit sad, Mommy. I love Guillie. I want her stay."
Me too, sweet girl, me too. I have no good reply for you, but I can promise you this: we will hug our memories tightly to us for the rest of our lives.
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