When my neighbor called several years ago and said her sister-in-law’s farm cats — several of them pregnant at the same time — had delivered too many for her to keep, I resisted. A short time earlier, our Maine Coon, Gracie, had passed away after 16 years. And a few years before that we lost Tennyson, my 20-year-old beautiful tiger-striped boy. It surprised me when my mother, B, who was 83 and spent the days alone until I would return home from teaching, said we should not only take one of the two gingers but that it would be a shame to separate the siblings. And so Bellina and Mastroianni, sister and brother from that Pennsylvania farm, joined our family the summer of 2008. True to gingers’ reputation, these two were happy-go-lucky from the start, following us around and learning to scale the steps to my bedroom with agility. Mastroianni was the “top dog,” pushing his way to attention. Bellina was tentative, watchful. In 2011, when I was starting a new teaching job, I did not catch the signs of Mastroianni’s diabetes soon enough. Before burying him, I brought him into the house so Bellina could see him. Cats recognize death, the veterinarian told me, but they do not understand disappearance. I understood this firsthand. My dad died of a massive heart attack when he was waiting for the bus he took home. There is a vacancy left behind in not being able to say goodbye. Gracie never understood what had happened to my dad, who sat and commiserated with her about aches and pains, politics, soccer. For months afterward, she would lay on his bed. That’s what anguish looks like. After Mastroianni passed, Bellina took charge. She wore the tiara. She commanded several spaces — my mother’s lap and the screened in porch being two of her favorites. After my mother’s heart attack in 2013, Bellina did not leave her side. It was not uncommon for me to come home and see the two of them reclined on my mother’s burgundy leather chair. Sometimes when Bellina was kneading her stomach too long — a sign of affection and love — B could be heard to say, “Damn it, Bellina. That’s enough.” My retort, “She’s looking for your heart. Give her a minute.” If B were in the kitchen, Bellina would present herself at her feet. As B slid her foot from her slipper, gently gliding it back and forth across Bellina’s body, she whispered, “You’re a spoiled brat.” When hospice was coming in the final weeks of B’s life, Bellina faithfully spent time with her, lying at the foot of my mother’s bed. In B’s final few days, Bellina stayed out of the room. That’s when I understood we were coming to the end. Since Christmas Eve 2015, it was just Bellina and me. She was my sidekick, my dinner companion, the subject of many photographs. She was the one I talked to about all things: work, heartache, worry about finances. She always met me at the door, no matter my crazy schedule. When I was asleep, she persistently tapped my cheek when she sensed my blood sugars were low from my insulin-dependent diabetes, walking me to the kitchen for juice. During the COVID-19 pandemic when I worked in a grocery store and fears ran high, she was the only friend who would be in my company. But for each other, we left behind our home and all that we knew in New Jersey last January for a writing opportunity in New Hampshire. To say we have been through a lot together doesn’t paint the hues and textures of our bond. She was my person. When friends visited, everyone vied for Bellina’s attention, which she meted out slowly. Somehow, they all wanted her to like them — this cat whose many portraits hang on my walls. In these past several months, I recognized Bellina had diabetes. Her blood work indicated that she was doing well on the medication. But in the final weeks, when that impossibly difficult decision floated in the ether, she gave me signs: vocalizing at all hours until I went to her, anxious and relentlessly crying when I was in the shower, tucking herself away between the tub and the sink. She no longer slept with me, only nearby. I spent a lot of time curled up with her, telling her the only thing that mattered: I love you. The apartment is quiet now. I’ve given her carrier and food to friends with cats. I can’t part with her now empty Necoichi ceramic elevated bowls , raised so she didn’t have to strain her neck while eating her pate or drinking filtered water. Picking up her ashes at the vet’s office, none of it feels exactly real, just as when I forget and go to call my mother to tell her something. For now, they are still with me, sharing the windowsill next to my kitchen table: my mother in a rustic piece of pottery and Bellina in her paw print urn. Mary Ann D’Urso is a freelance writer.
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