Esmeralda

Adopted  10 May 1991 in Tulsa – died 7 July 1992 in Tulsa

Esmeralda was easily annoyed and she was vocal about it. It took me a while to realize that what appeared to be complaints actually meant “more.” Keep holding me, keep combing me, keep kissing me, yes, yes, more, more. But it sounded like bloody murder.

She was another Friends of Felines rescue. Her shelter name was Randy, approximately 2 years old, with long black and white hair, and a broad, pretty face; but being friendly was not one of her charms. Leslie, the cat peddler, did not misrepresent the situation about Esmeralda’s flawed personality. Why then, I asked, would I bring such a beast into my life? To which Leslie, in the soft tones one speaks to a slow learner, replied: “Because no one else will take her.”  Such a lame explanation also had the effect of making the target, me, special – like a Navy Seal qualified like no one else to rise to the challenge. Nor did this seasoned crusader for the feline cause leave an avenue open for retreat. “I’ll bring her by this Friday and you can take a look at her.”

At the atomically precise time we had agreed,  Leslie’s van rolled on my driveway. I had come to terms with the idea of having a somewhat obnoxious cat. Well, nothing could prepare me for the blood curdling growl Esmeralda emitted as I looked into the carrier. Leslie smiled meekly and attributed it to the “stress” of transportation.

Her debut in the household was the stuff that inspired the immortal “It’s alive!” line. My three large dogs and the other cats all went into hiding.  But, as I said, her histrionics were the crude survival kit of a shy and sensitive personality. Later that day I gathered courage to attempt to pick her up. To my surprise, she let me … and she began to purr.

She was an elegant creature. Deliberate in her movements, not for being full of herself, but exercising caution. She soon realized, however, she was in a safe place, finally.

It was a 4^th of July weekend, one year later, when her liver and kidneys suddenly stopped functioning. From being her usual self, in one hour she rapidly declined. I rushed her to the emergency clinic. My diary entry on 7 July: "Esmeralda died  in the small hours of today, alone in a dark cage, at the clinic. Lab tests were in, too late, when I picked her body. Cause of death: hepatorenal failure. The horror of it all besides dying so soon after finding happiness is that, like poor Achilles, she died alone! 

We were supposed to have many years together. I loved her cranky mews, followed by a loud purr. It always made me smile. Confident of her youth, I didn’t hurry to take photos, except for a couple in her favorite spot, the bathroom sink, which in winter was warmed by the heat register under it.  

She is buried, like others, in the back of the garage. While I don’t remember the precise spot –so many rest there— I know I  doubled the amount of petals and flowers with which I cushion my pets’ eternal beds. Leslie, who was at grave side, said: "A precious jewel lies here." Indeed, like an emerald: fabulous yet frail.