The Magical Upside to Naming My Cat a People Name

I was 2 when a kitty decided to protect itself from the harsh winters of Phoenix by sneaking into my family’s garage and curling up on the hood of our silver minivan, recently driven.

I saw that fuzzy face white-tipped paws and fell in love. I gave her milk. She eventually drank it, but not in front of us. I gave her more milk. She came closer. Then closer. It didn’t take long before the little tortoise shell waltzed straight into our home.

I named her after the most beautiful person in the world: Lisa, my Montessori teacher.

Lisa (the cat) was my companion, my confidante. She was also wild. I could maybe pet her on the head, but a hand anywhere else would get me shived. Still, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and she’d be sleeping right by my face. I’d reach out to touch her and she’d slice me, but more often than not, she’d be there, purring. She knew her boundaries.

She was there through all the tears and emotional ups and downs of my childhood, straight through high school. She seemed completely in tune with my moods, and would always lay by my side, even if she wouldn’t let me hug her or pick her up. She’d bring me snakes she’d cut in half, lizards as little trinkets of her affection. Once, she presented me with a bunny she thought she’d killed. As soon as she dropped it on the floor, it hopped behind my parent’s dresser and as far as I know, still lives there today.

I did not like leaving her to go to college on the opposite side of the United States. She seemed to be about my age, which means when I left, she was 17. She was old, but seemingly immortal, showing no sign of slowing. I cherished every visit home to see her.

Then I did a terrible thing. I moved to Paris for my junior year. We were 20 and I would not be home for nearly 12 months.

I did not see her decline. I was not there for her when she did. I don’t know which would’ve been worse. My mom called my flip phone to tell me the news. She was there with her, she said, laying on the carpet by the piano I liked to pretend to play. Lisa outstretched her little arm, put her paw on my mom’s hand, and took her last breath.

I was inconsolable. I couldn’t speak in complete sentences. My mouth made weird sounds when I tried to talk, the air intake and lip movements all out of synch. I had to go home. I wanted to see her. She couldn’t just disappear out of my life.

You may be aware that flights from Paris to Phoenix are not cheap. This is why I had no plans to return home that year. And same-day flights? Forget about it. But I called some airline, I do not remember which, bawling, trying to get a ride. I couldn’t speak English correctly, which means my French was worse. Then something happened: A seat was available. I could fly out the next morning, for a round trip fare of something like $150.

I grabbed a backpack and went to Charles de Gaulle, bawling, bawling, boo hoo hoo.

Now, I am not a celebrity, but for a brief moment, I lived like one. Like an incoherent celebrity full of snot and tears.

I was escorted through security and onto my flight. “Lisa!” I cried. Everyone gave me loving nods. They gave me all the food, the blankets, the headsets, the space. They catered to my every need while I cried until I fell asleep.

The same thing happened when I landed in the U.S. I was escorted through customs and onto my connecting flight to Phoenix. “Lisa!” I cried. Everyone gave me loving nods.

The thing about Paris is it’s not close to Phoenix. Best case, you can get from Paris to Phoenix in like 13 hours with one stop. When I started my journey, it had already been at least 12 hours since my mom vividly recounted my best friend’s final breath. That means that when I touched down in Phoenix, sometime around Thanksgiving, Lisa had been dead for at least 24 hours.

My mom picked me up. Lisa was right where she’d died, unmoved. Her little paw outstretched. Body hard. The whole living room was a bit stinky, if I’m being honest. Like an absolute psycho or the kindest hearted animal lover, depending on your point of view, I lied next to her and cried and talked to her.

Then I made my mom take me to Michaels where I picked out a wooden box, and then to Joanne’s, where I picked some pretty fabric, and I nailed the fabric to the inside of the box and then retreated to the laundry room, where there a was a desk I’d studied at in high school, to write her a very long letter about how much she meant to me. And how sorry I was that I wasn’t around for her in her final years. She got me through everything and I had only been there for her good days. I felt like shit.

I let no one read the note. I put it in an envelope and nailed it to the inside lid of the kitty coffin.

Then my dad helped me dig a hole in the front yard under our olive tree. The desert ground is tough and rocky and I’d picked quite a royal-sized box, so we had to dig and dig for maybe hours. I don’t remember. And I lifted that stiff, little kitty body and put it in the beautiful box with my letter, and pet her head one last time. Just her head. Maybe if I’d pet her tummy, she’d have sprung back to life to cut me once more and I’d have been the happiest person to ever get scratched by a cat.

I closed the lid, put the box in the hole, and started to put the dirt on top. I’m pretty sure dad finished the rest while I cried in my room and got ready to go back to Paris. On the cheapest transcontinental, transoceanic flight ever recorded.

TL;DR:

Should airlines offer bereavement fares for pet owners? Yes. Do they? No. But if your pet has a people name, no one will know the difference.