When I was 7 my Aunt made the command decision that my sister and I needed to have a pet to love and to hold. We decided we wanted a cat, and no matter what my parents could say, we were convinced that the only way we’d truly by happy was if we had an adorable little fur ball of joy to call our own. So our parents packed us up and took us to get our cat; Mischa (pronounced like Mischa Barton from The O.C but not named after her).
Once I saw Mischa as a kitten I knew that I wanted her. In her entire litter, she was the biggest, the bitchiest, and the only one that ran away from us. But I wanted her. It was serendipitous from the get go. I was hers and she was mine.
Growing up, Mischa and I had a beautiful friendship. She quickly became my best friend and the only thing that I could be completely honest with. I don’t like to cry in front of people, so whenever I felt sad, I’d always go home to her, knowing that I could let it all out and she’d climb into my lap and kiss the tears away.
Mischa loved everyone in my family, but I was her favourite. I fed her, cleaned her litter, she slept with me, and she would follow me around everywhere. My parents called her my little shadow.
Mischa was a tubby cat…alright she was fat, and I loved every moment of her! She was obnoxiously rude to everyone and anyone that came over to our house, especially if they were men. But with me she was soft and cuddly. Many people would always complain about her attitude, wondering why I didn’t punish her for hissing, or asking if I wished I had a “nicer cat”. Those people were idiots. Plain and simple. I loved Mischa for who she was, and I wouldn’t have changed anything about her. I liked that she was only nice to me, I liked that I was the only one that got her love and was allowed a window into her softer side. And if anyone had an issue with that, that was just just too damn bad. She was a declawed cat, she really wasn’t going to hurt anyone. And if you left her alone she would do the same to you.
January 2, 2016 was the last day of Mischa’s life. She died at 7:45am laying in bed next to me after fighting for her life all whole night long. She had a bad case of arthritis that rendered her immobile in her old age, but it was cancer that finally got her in the end. For a cat that was always so healthy, it was extremely hard to see her like that.
I’ve never cried so much, I honestly don’t know where to go from here. I can’t be around anyone, or even in my own house. Everything reminds me of her. Sometimes I have to forcibly remind myself that she’s gone and that I’ll no longer hear the pitter patter of her footsteps. I’ll never touch her again, hear her meow, or listen to her soft purring.
I had Mischa for 17 years, and for that I’m grateful. I love you baby! Always.