Just this side of Heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing: they each miss someone very special, someone who was left behind. They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; his eager body begins to quiver. Suddenly, he breaks from the group, flying over the green grass, faster and faster. You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into those trusting eyes, so long gone from your life, but never absent from your heart. Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together... - Author Unknown

I don't remember much about my first cat, Mimi. I was 6 years old (1981) when she showed up in our yard. She decided to adopt me and my family, which I thought was pretty neat. I loved cats, but we didn't have one when I was very little because I was extremely allergic to cats. My eyes would swell shut and I would cough and sniffle and it scared my parents. But Mimi didn't bother my allergies, so she was "safe".

During Easter Break, I managed to get the chicken pox, and spent a miserable week trying not to itch. The day after Easter, my parents brought me out to the garage for a surprise. There, nestled in my old toy box, was Mimi, and three tiny, adorable kittens; one grey tabby (Midnight), one orange tabby (Tiger), and one calico (Cinderella). Not very original names, but I was only 6...

It was hard for me not to pet them constantly; I would spend as much time as I could sitting on the floor of the garage petting Mimi, and admiring the kittens, sometimes scratching their tiny ears and chins. They were so tiny and fragile; it fascinated me to watch them sleep, and eat, and cry.

After two weeks or so, Tiger disappeared. I was frantic until my mom told me he got sick and died. I knew what death was, and was sad, but paid lots of attention to Mimi and the two remaining kittens, so they wouldn't be lonely.

Then Cinderella disappeared. My dad told me she also got sick and died, because the kittens had distemper (or something like that). We tried to save Midnight by feeding him with an eye dropper filled with special formula, but he didn't make it either.

Sometime in the summer, Mimi also disappeared. She was always a wanderer around our neighborhood, exploring the bushes and trees all around, and I'm sure she got treats from some of the neighbors, which encouraged her explorations. But when she didn't show up for almost a week, I was sad, and very worried. My parents told me that she had probably run away.

Two years later, I brought up the subject of Mimi with my dad. He told me that she had been hit by a car down the street, and he had buried her without saying anything to me, knowing how upset I would have been. I was very angry that he hadn't told me.

This picture of Mimi sitting next to me on the driveway is the only photo I can find of her; I don't really know when it was taken.

I, being the cat-friendly person that I am, made good friends with the cat and spent a lot of time petting her and trying to coax her to play. After a week, I convinced my dad that we should bring her home, where she could have a nice backyard to roam around in, and proper cat food, and attention. My mom wasn't too keen on having a cat, but this grey cat was so nice and quiet that nothing more was really said.

I named her Shadow not only because she was grey, but because she resembled a shadow. She was very quiet--I don't think I heard her meow more than once--and she was so happy to come in the house and sit in what had become her chair, or on my bed in my room. She never played, that I saw, having no interest in catnip or fur mice or other toys. Shadow was very graceful and regal; to me, she always looked like she was posing for a portrait.

Sometimes I would try and keep her in the house at night by hiding her under the covers next to me, but always after I fell asleep, my dad would come and take her out to the garage, where she had an ever-changing "playground" of shelves and cardboard boxes, and a large wicker basket lined with towels for a bed.

When I was in 8th grade, I went to Disneyland for my Easter Break. I came back five days later to find Shadow looking thin and tired, with a dull coat of fur. I asked my dad if we could take her to the vet, but he said that she had just missed me, and was fine.

After a week of Shadow eating hardly anything and drinking very little, my dad decided that perhaps we should take her to the vet for a checkup. After some blood tests, our vet informed us that she had some disease (either FIV or FIP, I really don't remember). There was no real cure. I asked if there was any hope, and the vet said that we could try to give her pills for a week, to see if there was any improvement. I said okay, positive that Shadow would make a miraculous recovery.

Sadly, she didn't. She would not eat the pills, no matter what I hid them in, and I couldn't bear to force them down her throat. My dad said it was time.

The dreaded day came, and I brought Shadow into my room one last time to lay on my bed and let me brush her fur. Then I brought her outside and asked my dad to take a picture of her in my arms, while I cried. We set her in her basket, carried it out to the car, and drove to the vet's.

I don't remember too much of the visit, other than she was so dehydrated that they had to shave her foreleg to find a vein. I begged to hold her so she wouldn't be afraid. The shot was given and she peacefully slipped away. I cried and cried, and must have gone through half a box of Kleenex just at the vet's office.

Afterwards, we brought her home and buried her in the shade of a pine tree--her favorite place to nap during the day.

What happened to both of my cats could likely have been prevented, by keeping them indoors and regularly updating their shots. Unfortunately, I was never aware until Shadow's death that cats needed yearly shots. My parents grew up on ranches, and cats lived in the barn and killed mice, they didn't live in the house and get cans of food. Now I am very careful of my cats' health, and make sure they get their yearly checkups, as well as immediately taking care of other health problems they may have. Sure, it costs a bit, but I'd rather this than the devastation of losing a friend, and knowing there was something I could have done to prevent it.

This page created April 14, 1997. Updated December 30, 1997.