I started down my driveway early Friday morning to find my cat lying there having been mauled by dogs.
I got Monet when she was a kitten. We picked her out of the litter, my friend telling my husband, "Oh, this one is a sweetie. Very loving."
She became MY cat. She hissed and complained at anyone else who was near. Tolerating them but little else.
My husband graciously allowed her and her half brother, Tiger, and a beautiful grey cat called Monaco, to live indoors for many years; then hubby got fed up with having to dig me out from under the cats at night to sleep with me. :D
The older the cats got, the more digestive trouble they began to have and hubby lost it when someone lost their lunch on one of his cameras. (Can't say as I blame him...) So, outside they went.
Monet always greeted me as I arrived home. Meowing loudly to inform me of the days events. After I went inside, she would hop up on the warm hood of the truck and sleep.
Most mornings I could count on her sitting in my kitchen window staring at me as I made coffee, making sure I realized it was time for breakfast.
Making coffee has never been so lonely.
Although she was 15, she was feisty and wasn't showing signs of aging. I am so angry that she was taken from me in such a violent way.
And that we were helpless to prevent it.
My brain is at odds with itself. Wondering at the depth of grief I have-- "It wasn't a human, it was an animal." "This is part of the circle of life." -- is at war with-- "She was my baby." "She was a family member."
So while I'm trying to reconcile all this in my head, Tiger and Coco (remember the three legged kitty?) are getting lots of extra strokes and hugs.