Goodbye, Gertie

Today, I said goodbye to my cat of 16 years, Gertie. We had to let her go as her kidneys were failing, and in her last days, she hardly moved or ate. A part of me hoped she would rally again—like she did a couple of years ago when toxoplasmosis nearly took her, only for her to bounce back with stubborn determination. But this time, she didn’t. I always knew this day would come. She wasn’t as spry as she used to be, yet she would still surprise me—leaping onto high counters, chasing mice, proving that even in her older years, she still had fire in her. She was my little companion through so many phases of my life, always with her signature mix of affection and attitude. I met her in December 2008, back when I was living in Minneapolis. I remember bringing her into my apartment, setting down a fresh bowl of food, and watching as she took her first careful steps into our life together. She traveled with me between Algoma and Minnesota, a road-tripping cat who hated the first few miles but always settled in once we hit the highway. Sometimes, she perched on the back window, surveying the world; other times, she curled up beside me, my tiny co-pilot. Gertie was feisty in the way only a tortoiseshell can be—bold, independent, a little unpredictable. She had a habit of sneaking outside, giving me countless heart attacks. Every time I thought she was gone for good, she found her way back. The most terrifying escape happened in 2017 when I got into a car accident in Kentucky. My car was totaled, its windows blown out, and in the chaos of the junkyard where it was towed, Gertie bolted into the tall grass and rusted metal. I didn’t have a carrier—something I kicked myself for—but I knew that if I chased her, she’d run farther. I waited. Hours passed. Then, just as the kids’ van arrived to pick me up, I heard her rustling in the grass. I reached down, grabbed her scruff with every ounce of strength, and refused to let go. That was the moment I knew: she wasn’t going to be a Kentucky wild cat. She was coming home. When we moved to our place on Steele Street, she finally had a courtyard to explore—a tiny kingdom where she could roll in the dirt, sunbathe, and stalk whatever small creatures dared to cross her path. She almost escaped a few times, but we made sure she couldn’t. I loved watching her out there, completely in her element, stretching lazily in the sun or getting a little too curious about the critters. One time, she snatched a baby bunny and tried to smuggle it upstairs—only for me to grab her by the tail at the last second to stop her from releasing a half-dead rabbit into the house. She was an exceptional mouser, always patrolling for winter intruders, keeping our home rodent-free with a hunter’s pride. She was endlessly curious. If I left a cabinet door open, she’d be inside within seconds. If I set a box down, she’d claim it as her own. If something changed in the house, she had to investigate. One of my favorite things was when she slept on my chest during naps. She’d knead me with her sharp little claws, sometimes to the point of pain, but I never stopped her—it was her way of showing love, and the warmth of her small body was always a comfort. She liked to be near me, whether curled up beside my laptop while I worked, perched nearby during video calls (where she became a frequent topic of conversation), or sneaking onto the counter to steal an extra treat, much to Milo’s dismay. She loved being near us, but always on her own terms. She’d act indifferent, hanging at the edges of the room as if she didn’t care, but she was always there. And when she wanted attention, she demanded it—jumping onto the bathroom sink for a drink from the faucet, rubbing against our legs, or letting me scoop her up, turn her upside down, and cradle her like a baby. She’d meow in that grumbly, contented way, burying her face into me, letting herself be loved. Gertie was a constant. A fierce, funny, sometimes cranky, but always loyal presence in my life. Her warm, soft body, the feel of her fur under my hands, the sound of her paws padding across the floor—it’s hard to imagine the house without her. I will miss her so much.