by Megan Steele

Created on: November 18, 2008

When I was eight years old, my mother brought home a little black ball of fur. That little ball of fur was an adorable little kitten we named Muffin. Muffin was the family cat, not really supposed to belong to a single member. Somehow, she became mine. I remember the time I was getting dressed for school and she jumped up and hung onto the seat of my jeans as I was buttoning them. I remember the time she was sitting on my mother's lap while our parakeet was on her shoulder. The parakeet walked down to check out the buttons on Mom's shirt, Muffin sniffed at him, and he promptly pecked her on the nose. She slept with me, I fed her, played with her and loved her. In return, she gave me all of her affection. It was like she knew that I would love her the most in our family.

When I moved out of my parents house at nineteen, Muffin came with me. There was no argument or discussion about it, she was my cat now. One night, while lying in bed reading, she jumped up on the bed and peed on me. Grossed out and angry, I pushed her off the bed and yelled at her, then went to clean up. Everyone knows that when cats are mad at you, they pee on something. It never occurred to me that there was something else going on with her. While petting her a couple of days later, I noticed a lump on her stomach. I called the vet, took her in, and was told she had mammary cancer. One operation and several hundred dollars later, she was OK. The guilt about the peeing on me incident hasn't gone away fifteen years later.

A couple of years later, there was another lump - this time along her scar from the first operation. Again, I opted for the operation, she was my cat, I loved her and didn't want to be without her. She was only thirteen years old, that didn't seem like an old age to me. But this time, she didn't seem to recover as fast as before.

The next tumor came about a year and a half later. I cried like a baby when I felt it. I asked my mom, my sister and my boyfriend to go with me - I knew if the cancer was back, I couldn't put her through another operation. She was fifteen years old, I had a dog now that she didn't want to be around because he was too hyper, and I couldn't put her through the pain and recuperation again. I made the hardest decision I could that day. We took her to the vet and he confirmed that the cancer was back. He asked what I wanted to do. When I asked if she was in any pain, he said probably not yet, but I probably wouldn't know when she was because animals don't show pain until it is excruciating. I told him I needed to put her down that day because I wouldn't have the strength to bring her back knowing she was going to die. I didn't want her to suffer anymore. (I'm crying right now and this happened 13 years ago.) The vet gave me a minute to say goodbye to her, I kissed her ear and told her I loved her. Crying the whole time, I held her in my arms while my boyfriend held me. The vet gave her one shot, she mewed once and she was gone.

I cried for days after Muffin died. I still miss her smell and the softness of her fur. I know that I made the right decision, though. I know that she didn't suffer and she is free from cancer now. I loved her enough to make the most difficult decision of my life so far and let her go. I think she led a good long life, very loved and mostly spoiled. And sometimes, just as I'm falling asleep, I'll feel something walking on the bed right between my ankles, just where she used to sleep.

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