I spent that morning digging Rosie's grave.
It had rained hard, so the digging was easy. But wasn't there already enough grief in the world?
That’s Rosie and me looking askance, which is a worthy descriptor. It means we were skeptical of whatever information had been placed in front of us. We were doubtful of it; although Rosie was always sure of herself.
The photo is from a couple years ago, before thyroid and kidney diseases turned her into a fur and bones old lady. She was probably under 5 pounds when we took her to the vet for the last time. She just couldn’t put the weight back on, despite meds and cans of high-carb “urgent” food.
Her grave is on the side of the house next to Max, her longtime friend. They were so close that Rosie nearly died from grief after we put Max down in 2021. She quit eating, quit drinking, yowled, shrank down to nothing and collapsed by the fireplace, where they’d lain together for so many years. The vet gave her fluids by IV and she recovered, but it was a scare.
I wondered later if I should have shown her Max’s body, so she knew what had happened instead of being mystified by his sudden absence. So this time I called the dogs over before I closed up the box and lowered her into the grave. They’d known her for years. Toby stopped short and knew, you could tell. So did Blind Sunny, who of course couldn’t see Rosie but knew what her nose told her.
Look, I know the loss of an old cat doesn’t stack up against the horrors and cruelty inflicted on Israel, and its bloody payback in Gaza. Or the ongoing brutality of Russia’s attack on Ukraine. Or the latest sick mass murder in America. But another layer of grief wasn’t what we needed right now; the tears flowed freely as her appointment day neared.
Rosie seemed to be saying goodbye in her last days. Joining me on the couch, easing next to Blind Sunny in a surprise snuggle and even allowing our kitten, Hazel, to stretch out before the fire with her.
I always tell people that Rosie was a purring assassin. She was an outdoor cat and a huntress supreme. Over the years she brought dozens of mice, rats and birds into the house to show us. She was quick, athletic and stealthy enough to catch humming birds, if you can imagine that.
Sometimes she’d pop in the cat door and let her captives go, just for the fun of it. Blind Sunny, a wirehaired terrier mix who hates vermin, had to dispatch several rats, in particular, over the years. Many times we found birds quivering on the curtain rod above the sink or counter; I’d catch them in a kitchen towel and let them go outside. Sometimes even injured birds would be able to take some quick breaths, quiver and then jet off.
I know, it’s bad when cats kill birds. You don’t have to tell me in the comments. I wish she hadn’t, but she did. She was a cat.
She was a tortoiseshell. I don’t know much about cat varieties but generally I guess they are called “torties” for short and are known for their “tortitude.” Rosie wasn’t that way, completely. True, she was regal as hell, and she did lay languid and resplendent when Max groomed her by the fire. But she was our most affectionate pet, typically in my lap when I typed in the mornings and on my chest for my afternoon naps. She wasn’t shy about waking me up in the morning, walking on my head to order breakfast. She loved head rubs and chin scratches.
“I’ve always had a soft spot for torties,” the vet told us on that last visit.
He said he’d had one, and after it died his neighbor came over and complained that his yard was full of moles, now. The vet said his tortie apparently had killed hundreds of moles in the man’s yard, over the years.
Rosie killed a couple baby possums, and I found a dead squirrel in the basement once. But I don’t know if she brought it in, and Sunny might have dispatched it. We were away when it happened.
Rosie got along with Sunny and our other dog, Toby. She did have to put Toby in his place when we first got him, I remember. He was a rambunctious punk and took a flying leap into a pet bed that was on the couch. He didn’t know Rosie was already laying there; she rose up and clubbed him twice on the head, making a sound like you were thumping a melon. I heard it from the dining room. She didn’t have her claws out; just thumped him bam-bam. They never had another problem over the next eight years, or however long it’s been. Rosie and Blind Sunny never had a beef in 10 years, that I can think of. Over the past year, as Sunny lost her sight completely, Rosie took to making a timid mew whenever Sunny approached, just to let her know where she was.
With other dogs, though, Rosie could be trouble. One time a guy marched up on to my porch, knocked impatiently and abruptly handed me a sealed envelope. He huffed and said Rosie had attacked his dog for no reason. He said his dog, apparently a big lug, wouldn’t hurt anyone but Rosie just attacked him when he tried to say hello. He said Rosie left a claw in his dog’s nose and he’d had to pull it out. Oh, the horrors.
I said some version of huh, what, oh as the guy marched back down the steps. Wait, I called after him, holding up the envelope. What’s this? “That’s her claw,” he snipped.
We figured Rosie was lonely after Max died, so we brought home a male kitten, Gus. He’s 3 now and already a neighborhood legend, a capable, confident cat who likes people and visits other yards, driveways and homes like Rosie used to.
He wasn’t Max, though, and Rosie didn’t like Gus at first. For several months she hissed or yowled any time he came near or tried to play.
But then she did something remarkable.
She popped in the cat door with a dead mouse in her mouth and paraded past Gus, who crouched under a kitchen table, watching closely. Rosie stopped within his sight and made a great show of batting the mouse across the floor, tossing it in the air and catching it again.
Then she picked it up, trotted back to where Gus crouched under the table and dropped it in front of him. “Do it like that,” she seemed to tell him. Then she banged back out the cat door.
Rosie never had kittens — all the pets we’ve adopted were spayed or neutered before we took them home — but I’ll bet she would have taught her children well.
My daughter and I took Rosie to her last appointment. My daughter is 23 and has a cat of her own now, big Malcolm, who lives with us, too. But she’d known and loved Rosie Rose for 15 years, since she was a little girl.
We both dropped a few more tears as we waited with Rosie in the exam room.
The vet, who once had a tortie himself, said, “Oh, Rosie,” when he came in.
He had trouble finding a vein for the death needle, Rosie was so skinny. But he did, and her pulse gradually slowed. I could feel it in her throat.
The vet listened again with his stethoscope.
“She’s…gone,” he said, and I heard the catch in his voice.
It’s empty, sitting here typing this without Rosie in my lap. All this grief in the world and here’s some more.
Hazel, the kitten, is batting the cord of my headphones while a sad Leonard Cohen song plays. She’d probably jump into my lap if she weren’t so busy.
But I spent that morning digging Rosie’s grave. It had rained hard and the digging was easy. And now she lies beside her dearest friend, Max, who loved her, too.
So long, Rosie Rose.
A tender homage indeed. Yes, the world is overflowing with too much grief. My thoughts are often about the welfare of Israel. I appreciate your observations about the way cats communicate. The French phrase 'à bon chat, bon rat' (literally meaning 'to a good cat, a good rat'), is so true. My son and his wife have two cats. One of them, a tabby named Butters, is such a loving cat. Thanks for your lovely story.
Oh, man. Losing a beloved pet is just so damn hard… thanks for sharing Rosie with all of us.