The Passing of PITA

Thursday, June 25, 2026, started out like any other normal day. I got up, fed Kota, greeted the girls,  promising each one that I would feed them once I fed my outside kitties. With their complaints resonating in my ears, Kota and I stepped outside to greet the day.

Walking into the main enclosure, something felt off. All of the kitties (including Ashley) rushed out to greet me, wondering what kind of goodies I had in store for them. They were surrounding me with ankle bumps and meows. But wait: where was PITA in all this?

Typically, PITA would be at the back of her cage, adding her voice to the feline chorus. Walking up to the main feeding platform, I could clearly see the back of her cage. Not only was her voice missing, but so was she! Had she somehow escaped her cage in the night? Dropping everything I hurried around to the front of her cage, opening up her door.

She was lying on the cat condo, her chest rising and falling in erratic waves. I reached out to touch her. Suddenly she exploded. She became a whirling dervish, constantly in motion, head-bumping my forehead as I leaned further inside, trying in vain to count her respirations.

Finally, I gave up. I simply folded my arms around her, singing her a special lullaby, reserved just for her. Now my mind was whirling. What could’ve set her off like this?

Eventually, I could feel her settling down. She nestled deep into my arms. Her breathing was still abnormal. While she was at rest, I counted. Her respirations were up to 78 breaths per minute. I could also feel deep within her tremor which were now invading her body.

What followed that day was 34 days of an emotional roller coaster for both of us. She would have good days, she would have bad days. On her good days, she showed me in every way possible that she was grateful that I was with her. I was with her every single day. She is 17 years old. I’ve had her since she was a kitten. I did so much research, talked to so many people. But what I couldn’t do during that period of time was take her to the vet. I simply couldn’t make it happen.

She stopped eating much. I ended up getting her Delectables. It was the only thing she had any interest to eat.

Although she was barely eating - perhaps half a teaspoon a day - she did not lose weight. She wasn’t nauseated. There was no vomiting, nausea, no fevers, no black tarry stools. She had a few petit mal seizures. There was very little activity in her litter boxes. I wanted to take her in so badly. But due to circumstances beyond my control, I couldn’t manage it.

Last night I had a dream. I was in the cat enclosure. I was spending time with her. She was having a good day. She tolerated the love and pets that I was giving her for just a tiny bit. Then her eyes grew glassy she turned her back to me. This was a posture I had grown to accept. It was her way of telling me that she was not going to have a good day any longer. Then she escaped to the back of her cage.

I closed her cage door, started cleaning litter boxes and straightening up, talking to the kitties as I worked. I felt this strange feeling; I looked around and there was Mike!

He didn’t look like a ghost, he didn’t look like a vision. He wasn’t sprouting angel wings. He was solid. I was so stunned, I couldn’t speak. At first, he didn’t speak to me. He just smiled his special smile that he reserved just for me.

He was by her cage. Without even opening the door, he reached inside and picked her up. He snuggled her deep into his arms. Then he turned to me and he said: “Now, it’s my turn.”

Then they both vanished. I woke up, my face was wet. I knew deep in my heart that this was her last day with us.

The stars aligned, I called the vet. A friend was at the ready all day waiting for a call back to see what time they could get me in to get PITA euthanized. Thanks to a giving heart from a caring friend, I had the money finally.

My appointment was at 4:40. My friend who was doing errands at the time picked me up at 4 o’clock. Before we left the driveway I asked her to pray with me. I asked God to please give PITA a peaceful end. Please give Dr. Steve the skill that he needs to help her exit this life quickly.

On the way to the vet, just a block away, PITA’s cries of distress turned into three quick death howls - then,  silence. My friend quickly pulled over to the side of the road and I jumped out. Opening the back end I found her in full seizure mode. I’ll spare you all the details. I called the vet as we sped down the road.

I’m surprised my friend didn’t get a ticket. They rushed me into a room. When they went to pick her up to weigh her, she screamed bloody murder. I looked at her and I knew she was already gone. God had taken her to the point where there was nothing left. Her soul was departing. It was over so quick. Now she is at peace. Now she is with Mike and Jeremy.

I kept apologizing to the vet telling him that I tried to get her in quicker, but under the circumstances I couldn’t. He finally stopped me and told me that he knows how much I care for my animals and how good I am with them. I didn’t even see any change in her until that fateful day, June 25, 2026. In the time before her passage, we connected on such a deep level. I am sure that Mike is holding her as fiercely as I would be right now if I was up there instead of him.

Godspeed my sweet girl. We called you, PITA with love in our hearts. Yes, you were a Pain In The A--, but you were also a cat like no other. I know my son and my husband are getting hundreds of head-bumps now.

Bath-time for Ashley

Ashley’s fur had become so matted over the two-year period of my healing process, when I lost the ability to perform the simplest of tasks, such as taking care of her basic grooming needs.

Through my kitchen window during the day, I would watch her on her favorite perch, tear out chunks of her hair, dropping the excess on the ground.

Soon, the floor of the cat enclosure became carpeted with her hair, as if a giant spider had landed and woven a giant web in an attempt to capture an alien being. Daily sweeping became fruitless. The next day, more hair would appear in its place. This spectacle was quite concerning, motivating me to push harder in physical therapy both at home and in the clinic. I needed my right hand back.

Finally, on June 22nd, after months of Ashley successfully eluding me, I was able to pick her up, place her inside of her carrier and bring her into the house.

That fateful morning, I had a feeling that my efforts to help her would pay off. Previously that day, I prepared the bathroom for her arrival: everything off the floor, countertops, top of the toilet lid, rugs removed, even the shower curtain flung up out of the way of her sharp claws; piles of fresh towels in the corner, square bucket waiting in the shower stall; grooming tools, including a new set of cat clippers at the ready.

My question to myself as I closed the bathroom door behind us: “I was ready for battle, but would my right hand cooperate?” The deeper question: “Would Ashley?”

The answer came suddenly wafting through the air. She was crouched in her carrier. I could smell the unmistakable odor of what I learned over time to call her ”PTSD poop.”

I’m unsure what brings this on every time I try to groom her or brush her or, God forbid, remove her mats. More than likely it’s a combination of her tumultuous introduction into a fiery world where she lost not only her mom, but also most of her siblings.

Her attempts to find mom’s milk bar led to her and her brother to ingesting large amounts of dirt, toxic ashes, small bits of gravel, and culminated in a 45-day stay at the vet’s in order to save the two survivors.

Taking a calming breath (wishing I had on a rubber apron), I picked her up and set to work with the shaver. I’d hoped that instead of using the brushes, combs, or the seam ripper, this might stop her rancid flow of poop. I was mistaken.

Three hours later, after multiple rest periods, her hair was now inside the trash bin. Poop was everywhere-even on the walls. The floor was slippery. The bathroom fans were running full force, all in vain. Welcome to her PTSD world.

She was back inside her top-loading carrier. This was her safe-spot where she was retreating to every time she jumped away from me down to the floor. She was growling, spitting, swearing at me, daring me to try to pick her up one more time.

Lukewarm water now filled half the bucket. I squirted some Dawn into the mix.  Picking her up carefully, avoiding her extended claws. I dunked her rear into the water. Her claws now clung tightly to the lip. Grateful that they weren’t in me, I set to work.

Four butt-baths later, I went to lift her slippery body one final time. She wouldn’t give with her claws. Carefully, I slid my right hand down by her back, cupped her rear to lift her out.

Without warning, she tensed up. She bent her back legs, digging them into my right palm, launching herself into the air and back into her carrier. I pulled my hand out of the soiled water and looked at it.  The gashes were deep. Trying to ignore the pain, I turned my attention to her, to finish the job.

An hour later, she was dry and back with her friends, while I was on my way to Urgent Care. The doctor smiled when he walked into the room. I am well-known there.

“Another cat bite?” he inquired.

“No, not this time,” I answered as I unwrapped my hand, showing him the damage. I thanked God that my tetanus shot was up-to-date. Occupational hazard. This time it only took five stitches to close the wound.

I thoroughly expected the next morning for her to completely avoid me. To my surprise, she came running up to me and head-bumped my ankles! I believe she was telling me in her way:

“Thanks, Mom, for loving me despite all my flaws.”

I bent down to gently pet her, relieved that all her mats were now gone. I could sweep the floor one final time and life could then return to normal - as if anything in my life is truly normal.