I bought a new suitcase before we flew to France. We all did, my whole family. Over the years, our travel bags wore out. Broken zippers mostly, plus they were all duffels. The airline gave us specific maximum dimensions for our one allotted bag each. They had a slot at the ticket counter to measure the bags. We picked our suitcases to fit exactly, maximizing our carrying capacity. I loved mine. Soft sides, backpack shoulder straps, an exterior pocket where I could stash my laptop. Two weeks of planes, trains and automobiles, my bag proved a worthy companion.
By the weekend, she owned it. I removed the rest of my laundry and jammed in a couple of baby blue flannel sheets with a white snowflake pattern. That was five years ago. I never used my suitcase again. It still sits on the window seat right where I left it, always a cat bed.
Roz died last Tuesday. She was old and sick with a prickly disposition. She cost us a small fortune. Diabetic-formula cat food, insulin, syringes, early on she needed dozens of blood tests to get her dose right. We could never hire a neighborhood kid to feed our cats when we went on vacation, she needed a professional. She needed two shots daily.
Everyone dies, right? Roz lived far longer than I expected. Seventeen years and a third of her life with diabetes. Four weeks ago, we noticed she wasn’t eating her food. She sat stoically with her tongue poking from the side of her mouth. I took her to the vet and learned her teeth fell out. A tumor lurked just above her chin taking up the space where her tongue was supposed to rest. Brown drool hung from her bottom lip, two, three, four inches long, a mix of saliva and whatever was leeching from that tumor.
We tried antibiotics, the veterinarian’s idea, even though antibiotics don’t cure tumors. We switched from kibble to wet canned food. Fancy Feast gravy-lovers variety. She enjoyed that, but she didn’t eat the food. She just lapped up the gravy. Tommy, our other cat, followed behind her and gobbled up her uneaten food along with any tumor-drool that may have mixed in. Every veterinarian visit, Roz lost a half pound. She stopped visiting us on the couch. When we went searching for her, the first place we checked was always her suitcase.
On our final drive to the vet, Susan held Roz on her lap. It was her first car trip not trapped in a plastic cat carrier stowed safely on the seat. The passing scenery mesmerized Roz. She watched in wide-eyed wonder as we drove past farmhouses, train tracks and scrappy wooded lots. She propped her front feet on the dashboard and stared out the windshield at the car traveling ahead of us. The vet first gave her a shot to gently turn off her mind. Susan and I cuddled her and whispered our hopes for her next life. We left Roz with the vet and sat in our car as a second shot stopped her heart.
Susan and I are flying west next week. We’ll pick up our daughter Sophie in Montana. The three of us will hike the Tetons and Yellowstone, lounge in coffee shops, and seek out the best food we can find on our rural-American budget. I’ll put my suitcase back in action. I’m excited to use it again after such a long break. Traveling with that suitcase will be like traveling with an old friend. Traveling with that suitcase will fuel warm reminders of Roz for the entire trip.
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Another story about Roz: https://jefftcann.com/2020/06/27/roz-2/
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Previously Published on jefftcann.com and is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
