Naomi Girson | opinions editor

My cat died a couple weeks ago.

At a mere 15 years-old, Parker (she/her) was a beautiful, wise stray that my big sister and I got as a Christmas gift when I was in kindergarten. She wandered home from a park with my aunt and uncle one late fall day. They named her Parker on behalf of her spot of retrieval and discovery. A cute name, but the cause of many conversations where I had to explain, “no, she’s a girl cat, her name is just Parker because she was found in a park.”

She was the first and the only pet I ever had. She grew up with us. She used to sleep on the foot of my mother’s bed, and sometimes, late into the night she would come into my room and sleep on the foot of mine. If I woke up and she was curled up I would pick her up and snuggle with her like a stuffed animal until she wiggled out of my grip and went back to my mom. She stopped doing that when my dad built me a loft bed in 4th grade, and even though I only had the bed of higher altitude for a year, she never added me back into her night routine.

She was a loud and talkative meow-er, and such a great mouse catcher. If there was one lurking, she would stay up for days staking out in the kitchen, waiting. After she died my mom had to go buy mouse traps to make up for her absence.

Parker never used scratching posts, climbing structures, toys even. I could get her to play with the occasional laser pointer but she didn’t care much for traditional cat toys.

She was incredibly vocal, the most conversational cat I have ever met in my life.

When my mom woke me up on Sunday morning I knew what it was about. Parker had been sick for a few weeks and she had stopped eating and cleaning herself. It was harder for her to walk, she was losing weight. She was dying. We knew it, but none of us could stand to put her down.

The vet was her least favorite place in the world, so why should that be the last place she ever is. Instead she died in the basement, on a carpet, in what my dad called “her bedroom.” I was just a little glad that she died of her own accord.

We buried her in the backyard — the spot that she would sit in by my mother’s garden when we would let her out to roam. My dad dug a big hole while I was at work and they waited for me to hold the ceremony. I didn’t want to stop petting her, even though she wasn’t there anymore. It was still the same fur I had spent so many years with.

My dad used rocks around the yard to make a “P” for Parker on top of the mound of dirt, to mark where she was.

There is no cat on earth quite like my Parker. She was the best cat in the whole world, and I am positive I am going to miss her forever. 🙁

Naomi Girson can be reached at girsonn@duq.edu