Bill Zuckert
15 December 1915-23 January 1997
27 February
My little kitty died yesterday.
Not one of my four big boys here in New York, but Rhubarb, the cat I got when I was twelve years old. She was fine on Monday morning when I kissed her goodbye, just fine, but I got a call from my Mom telling me that she had gotten sick on Tuesday, and she took her to the animal emergency room, and she stayed overnight and then Mom took her to the regular vet yesterday, and she died of renal failure in the afternoon.
She was twenty years old. Several people said to me "Twenty is really old for a cat--she lived a good long life", and that is, of course, true.
But I want more.
It was 1977 and I was twelve years old, and we went to the pound to get a cat. We were looking in all of the cages, and there was this little grey tabby with the biggest mouth, going "MAAAH! MAAAH!!!" every time I passed her cage. We decided to come back the next day, and they had moved all of the cats into different cages, and near our feet we heard "MAAAH! MAAAH!!! MAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!", and there she was.
So we figured we'd better take her, 'cause she was so insistent.
About four years ago, my folks took her on a trip in the motorhome, and they opened the door and she streaked out of there and was lost. They looked and looked, and my Mom put up signs everywhere and kept driving the two hours to the camp to call and call for her for weeks. We were certain that she was gone, but eight weeks after she was lost, we got a call from the camp saying that someone had seen her, so Mom went back and found her.
She weighed three pounds and was completely dehydrated, but she was alive. SIXTEEN years old, and she was fine. I always said "You couldn't kill that cat with a stick."
Guess I was wrong...
Mom said tonight "First your father, now Rhubarb--nothing worse can happen." I said "Don't say that! You're tempting fate!" and Mom said
"It doesn't matter what you say, bad things happen."
The first Christmas picture, 1966,
and the last Christmas picture, 1996.
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