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Love affair’s end causes sadness, reflection

4 min read

A wonderful eight-year love affair of mine ended suddenly Monday, leaving me shocked, sad and yes, lonelier than I could have imagined. We met in March 1997 when she was young and frisky, just a baby really. Although I was much older than she, the age difference didn’t matter. We hit it off, big-time. Through the years, even as she gained a few pounds and her belly got a little saggy, it didn’t diminish the bond between us. True love is that way, you know.

She was my faithful companion, gently waking me at 7 a.m. each morning by nuzzling up to me in bed, pressing her soft nose against my arm and letting out a cute purr. So punctual was she in this ritual that I christened her, “My Little Alarm Clock.”

Most days, unless it was too cold or rainy, she went out in the back yard for a half-hour of exercise and fresh air while I made my morning coffee and got ready for work. But she’d usually be back inside to say goodbye before I left the house.

When I’d come home for lunch or from work, or after a late night of teaching class in Morgantown, she’d often be peering out the living room window, anxiously awaiting my arrival. And when I opened the door leading from the garage into the house, she’d greet me at the top of the stairs, always wanting to rub her body against mine.

An eager helper, she’d always stick her nose into whatever I was doing. No bag or package from the grocery store or from a visit to Wal-Mart escaped her keen female scrutiny. But she never complained about anything I brought home, particularly if it was her favorite food or a little toy for her to play with.

Through the years I learned to overlook the little things she did that once made me upset. I got used to cleaning up spots of the carpet soiled when her delicate stomach couldn’t keep a meal down. I accepted the fact that she could walk all over me, and all over my newly washed car or truck, and get away with it.

Quite the little snoop, when Christmas rolled around, she was always outside the closed bedroom or game room door as I was wrapping presents – including hers, whose tags said: “To: Emily, From: Dad.” Once that task was done she loved to play with the excess paper and ribbons. It didn’t take much to make her happy. She just loved to be petted.

In the terminology used by her doctor, veterinarian William L. Sheperd, who took good care of her from infancy, Emily was a “black domestic shorthair feline” who weighed 12.3 pounds during her last checkup on May 27, 2004.

To most people, I guess that made her a cat. But all you pet lovers will understand when I say that description just wouldn’t be accurate.

Emily was struck and killed by a vehicle on the road in back of my house on Monday morning, which is ironic because my front yard runs along a much busier road that she thankfully never dared cross. While she had often ventured across the back road in her youth, I hadn’t seen her do that but once in the past year.

I knew something was wrong when she was nowhere to be found Tuesday morning, which ironically was her yearly appointment with Dr. Sheperd.

After some checking around using my reporter’s skills, I found that a neighbor had removed her body from the middle of the road, to spare further mutilation. The nature of her wounds was such that he didn’t see the nametag and phone number on her collar.

Upon retrieving her body, I buried Emily in an appropriate spot in the yard, in a tearful one-man ceremony, thanking her for bringing me such joy for so many years. But I also quietly admonished her one last time, asking my “Baby Emily” why she had to take such an uncharacteristic risk. I had honestly thought she was in the house on Monday night.

While my loss is no greater than any other pet owner’s when this terrible time comes, my hope is that this tribute might make you appreciate your own pets even more.

I still have Emily’s baby sister to tend to – they were from the same litter – but for now we are both in a daze, trying to deal with the big void in our house.

Rest in peace, my Little Emily. I’ll think of you often.

Paul Sunyak is editorial page editor of the Herald-Standard.

He can be reached by calling (724) 439-7577 or at psunyak@heraldstandard.com

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