In the spring before I turned 12 my parents adopted a little white, 8 week old kitten for me. She was our only ever completely indoor cat and she was my pal. At the time there was a show on TV called Blossom about a teenage girl, named Blossom Russo. Since that was my last name at the time, I bestowed upon my new kitten the name of Blossom, rather than the “Gwen” she’d been called at the shelter.
Blossom was a great pal. She would play with cat toys, indulge me in dressing her in my baby doll clothes, and would sleep curled up under the covers with me at night, purring up a storm. Like any cat, she would sit on my desk while I did my homework. She loved curling up underneath the warmth of the desk lamp and would sit in the middle of my books and papers when it was convenient for her (and inconvenient for me). When I moved out of the house to go to college in ’98 my mom wouldn’t let me take Blossom with me to my new apartment so she stayed behind in the house where she grew up and despite frequent visits initially, those visits eventually waned and we grew apart. She was still my cat, but she wasn’t really my cat anymore.
Blossom had several quirks she developed after I left. She had to be warm and would complain if she was cold and wanted a fire built. She hated closed doors. She had to have fresh food and water in her bowls before everyone went to bed and she would complain loudly during the night if those food bowls weren’t filled. Sometimes she would just complain…As she progressed in age she started showing traits of being senile. She would pick a particular spot in the house and sleep there, no matter how strange of a place or how inconvenient it was. Her favorite places were on the footstool on top of my mom’s feet, in front of or under the fireplace with or without a fire built, and in her litter box (it was clean).
This is one of only a few online pictures of have of Blossom. This was taken in December of 2006 at Christmas time. Bug got a big kick out of petting her and hearing her meow at him. She was in one of her cold moods. See how close she is to the wood stove.
I got a call this morning from my mom. I could hear something in her voice when I answered the phone and knew something was wrong. I knew instantly it was Blossom. Blossom died in the night, at the age of 16 and a half, stretched out sleeping in front of my old dresser in “her room,” after eating a final meal from her freshly filled food bowls. I instantly teared up when my mom told me the details (I’m crying even now) even though I’d always told myself it’s been several years since we were close and I wasn’t going to be overly sad when she passed. It still hurts.
In the past few years I’ve pulled out my old scrapbook of the pages I compiled of her pictures and the story I told of her life with and without me. I think I’ll have to track down a few more pictures to create a new page to add to my book summing up the remainder of her life, just like I’ve done with past pets.
I’m sure when I go back to the house for Thanksgiving there will be a different feeling about it. I’m sure there will be nights when she can still be heard meowing for food and water, much like we’ve heard past pets after they’d passed on. She’s buried on the property in our very own “pet cemetery” so I’ll still be able to visit her.
So, Blossom, where ever you are right now, hopefully curled up in front of a nice warm fire with full food and water bowls, please rest in peace.
April 1992 – October 14, 2008