Hannah's song...

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,

Love leaves a memory no one can steal.”

– Author Unknown

It was quiet this morning, unusually quiet.

In the past few years, Hannah, our remaining geriatric cat (17 human years) somehow channeled a barnyard rooster. You know what I mean. A living alarm clock set by some unknown internal algorithm, driven by instinct.

The time was not always consistent. It might start in the three A.M. hour, mostly though, it was somewhere between four and five. While I suppose she might have thought she was singing us awake, it was a particularly irritating sound. It was her way of letting us know it was new day and time to get with the program. One could easily imagine her saying, “You understand that if you were up and got the chow going, I wouldn’t have to do this.”

Hannah Banana, that’s what Molly called her. She was the most robust of the three cats who spent their lives with us.

Leah was on board first. She came to our home as a kitten-companion for Sable, an older feline we adopted from Molly’s parents when they retired and moved out west. Leah was an unrelenting pest looking for a mother. In the end, Sable accepted the little nuisance and trained her in appropriate cat behavior.

On the advice of an old friend, the day we lost Sable, it was straight to the animal shelter to bring home a companion for Leah. Instead of one, that afternoon Leah had two tiny kittens, as future partners in crime – Sarah and Hannah. It was, as it had been with Leah and Sable, a rocky transition. Leah wasn’t sure the interlopers belonged in the house. Hannah was having none of it. She weighed in and simply refused to let Leah reject her.

Eventually, these little creatures were compatible, and their life's journey took shape. We settled in, the five of us, to what became a home of interspecies acceptance and love. 

Leah was the boss – she knew it…they knew it. All three, however, quickly learned who was the boss of the house…it wasn't me. In the early years, Molly and I both worked but everyone knew who took care of feeding and any health issues that emerged. I was an active participant as the litter box cleaner. Even that took time before you know who trusted I could handle the task.

We were a great family and for many years lived in a sweet spot of affection and mutual respect. From the beginning of her entrance into our lives, Sarah identified Molly as her human pet – period. Wherever Molly was in the house, her girlfriend was close behind. Leah, if I could be so bold to say, adopted me. In the early morning hours, on the couch and as the day slipped away, she would track me down, snuggle in, and purr her little heart out.

Then there was Hannah. It's not that she wasn't affectionate or that she didn't enjoy being with us, she just had her own rhythm. She was a living paradox. In the first instance, she was by far the biggest of the three. I teased about her being piggish – she was, you know, ‘big boned.' In fact, even for her size, she was the agilest of the three. She loved altitude. In our San Diego home, the living room and kitchen were separated by a nine-foot-high dividing wall. Most times, when not eating or sleeping, she could be found in quiet repose on top of that divider observing that the inmates were following the rules.

In spite of her size, she was surprisingly timid. When people came to visit, she would disappear under the bed. On the other hand, if a stray cat wandered into our backyard, or approached the front door, she became ‘Hannah, the warrior.' God help any creature she perceived to be a threat to her home or its inhabitants.

She didn’t like to be picked up, but would, on her own terms leap to a lap or couch to stare at the television, giving the impression she was attending to everything taking place on the screen. In the latter years, she slept with us…better said, she slept with Molly. When I got up in the night, there they would be…Molly and Hannah, either side by side or Hannah at her feet.

While very different personalities, it was not uncommon to find all of them lying together on our bed during the day. It was clear they loved each other.

In the fall of last year, we lost Sarah. She was the first of our family to leave us. It was hard…more so for Molly. In the spring, Leah slipped away from our grasp. That left stoic Hannah. In a few short months, she lost her two best friends, with whom she had spent her entire life. She did her best to accommodate, but it was clear she was depressed. Molly and I offered consolation, but it wasn’t enough.

The healthiest, by far of the three, she developed a urinary tract infection. We had been in the habit of placing disposable mats under the litter boxes for Leah. She wasn’t incontinent, but because of an arthritic and spontaneously fused lumbar spine, she didn’t always get completely in the cat box. When she was gone, the mats remained clean…for a while. Then Hannah began soiling outside the box accompanied by a small reddish stain. Thinking it was the infection, we started treating her with antibiotics. Her appetite was depressed, but she was drinking.

Last week, feeling Hannah needed companionship, we brought two rescued cats home from a shelter. Hannah would a good mother, instructing them in the ways of the Dreisinger household. As it turns out, it was not to be.

Wednesday last, we took her in for some hydration. Bloodwork from the day before suggested she was battling a more serious infection. Not a real problem, we thought, we just needed to get some fluid on board to make her more comfortable. I was to pick her up and bring her home.

On the advice of our veterinarian, we had x-rays done. When I arrived to get her, I was given the news. She had significant fluid on her lungs, and tumors in the lungs and bladder. Molly joined me at the office. We were confronted with the unexpected choice for putting our seventeen-year-old through uncomfortable procedures with no guarantees or saying goodbye.

We made the reluctant decision to say goodbye. We were, as we had been for her entire life, with her in the end. I held Hannah as she drifted away from us, Molly gently stroking her. It was a loving and tearful send-off. It wasn't just the devastatingly unanticipated loss, it was the end of an era. Our little family unit had been together for seventeen years and now three-fifths were gone.

So, we face our first day with the last vestige of our family history gone. We haven't had time to process it yet. Our hearts are broken, and yet we know Hannah, like her adopted sisters, knew they were appreciated and loved. We had labored with Sarah and Leah, but we knew when it was time. Hannah caught us off guard. She left us so suddenly. It was not supposed to happen this way.

It was quiet this morning, unusually quiet.

Oh, Hannah Banana, what I would give to hear that rooster crowing one more time…

ted