Penny
In late spring 2008, my sister and I visited a pet shelter.
When we came home, we’d been adopted by Amalfi. She wore a grey and white tuxedo, had radiant yellow eyes, and doled out enough love to touch the most hidden human souls.
She joined Seymour, and they became the royals of the condo we shared. Though Amalfi is a wonderful name, I had another one in mind. My grandmother, née Pauline but known to friends as Penny, was an immense lover of cats. My sister, who bears the middle name of Penelope, is an immense lover of cats. And, it being 2008, I was quite taken with the phenomenal but constantly absent character of Penny in the television show Lost, who was probably, being a person of high character, an immense lover of cats. The confluence seemed fortuitous.
So, Amalfi became Penelope in honor of these people, and we called her Penny.
Upon seeing a photo, a friend commented, “She’ll never leave you.” And she was right; Penny and I were inseparable.
Between the point where my sister and Seymour left for graduate school and my wedding, Penny was my only companion. It could have been a rather lonely stretch, but she was incredibly doting. She was a lap cat with a hefty purr. She was too smart for her own good and didn’t mind causing trouble. Like anyone infinitely smitten, I let her get away with it. As I think about the period when it was just the two of us, it’s hard to fathom how much negativity she likely cleared from life.
Though Penny was a lover, she was wary of other humans. Other than myself, if you weren’t my sister, the cat wanted nothing to do with you. Visitors sent her fleeing to recesses I didn’t know existed in my abode. This behavior suddenly and curiously changed when the woman who later married me met Penny. From this human, for some reason, she did not flee. The two took to each other immediately, a wonderful sign that the person I was admitting to my life was a keeper.
Not everything was perfect when we became a bigger family, though. My wife brought another feline inhabitant as part of the deal. Penny never quite figured out what to make of Imelda, and her wariness of new humans also seemed to extend to new cats. Despite all of Imelda’s best efforts, the two remained largely aloof. Penny tolerated Imelda, albeit begrudgingly.
Still, our happy two-person, two-cat household chugged along largely in harmony, even if Penny would have loved to be one entity lighter. My silver companion waited for me after every shift and every trip. She slept on my bed, demanded every lap as if it were a throne, ate up innumerable caresses, and purred enough calm into an anxious adult to put massage therapists out of business.
When we purchased a new home, she set up as the sovereign. She loved the new place, but her serene reign didn’t last forever. Several years later, our family became even larger. When we brought our daughter home from the hospital, Penny gave in to her feline impulse for curiosity, reluctantly approaching the detachable car seat. She couldn’t hide the visceral reaction. Whether from betrayal or disgust, her countenance beamed, “What is that thing?” And, this time, I don’t think the backlash came from being scared of an unknown human. Instead, she sensed a house about to be much louder and much more frantic. Perhaps she worried less attention would come her way.
Still, she immediately understood this new entry was family. I’ve heard people worry about cats getting along with children, but neither of ours ever showed a wicked bone toward the kids. Penny wasn’t happy about this infant who never napped, but she loved her in her own way. Two years later, we repeated the process with daughter number two.
The girls, of course, loved the cats. I knew Penny had fully accepted the children as they learned how to pet. It takes many repetitions to impart the knowledge that you start at the head and move toward the tail. Every time my daughters went the wrong way, Penny glared, but she never took it out on them.
Throughout the chaos of raising two small people, Penny did her best to soak up as much attention as possible. She claimed my lap at every moment. Nearly every article I typed at a computer emerged with the warm love of a cat imparted through my legs.
As she aged, she never lost her youthful attributes. She remained lithe, slim, and playful. In a seeming instant, she turned 10, and then 15. Each time I stopped to ponder the passage of time, I looked at her good health and reassured myself that I at least had a few more years to spend with her. I had spent so many years with this amazing being that I couldn’t bring myself to consider a point without her.
In spring 2025, she turned 17. She looked to be in fantastic fitness. Once again, I told myself, “You have, at least, a couple more years.”
Her healthy appearance made the sudden downturn hard to comprehend. Suddenly, the regent of the house began to hide and express yowling discomfort. She had been ill before, just like every living creature, but this time she didn’t bounce back. She looked so bad the next morning that we scoured available veterinarians and hospitals for any opening. By the time a slot materialized in the afternoon, I feared the worst. I sensed the car ride might be the last adventure. When we loaded the car, she was lethargic to the point of oblivion.
I was shredded inwardly. I held her on my lap as my wife drove to the doctor. At this point, something extraordinary transpired. Penny realized she was in a car, looked out the window, and suddenly gained a spark of excitement. She gazed at passing trees and cars, lifting herself to the window to peer into the wide world. I felt like I was holding a kitten filled with unbridled zeal for exploration. Her body, limply weak before, became a ball of twitching muscle.
She was alive, and being alive was magical!
When we reached the facility, we all snapped back to the unceasing march of time. Her kidneys were failing. It’s just something that eventually happens to old cats. The doctor gave her fluids, which filled her with some pep and a bit of an appetite. He told us we could ponder a few palliative treatments that might give us some time with her, at least enough to plan a final, gentle goodbye.
Penny took the burden of decision from us. When we got home, she walked to her favorite spot under our bed and went to sleep. As I checked on her during the night, I could tell she had passed on. I offered up my thanks for a quick, seemingly painless transition.
It had happened so quickly that I felt I couldn’t process the reality of the situation. But it soon hit me that I didn’t have the luxury of pushing my feelings into numbness. This cat that had taught me so much about life would be the introduction to death for my daughters. My oldest was four when Penny died, the youngest two. We had been fortunate not to have lost family members since they were born. A dog belonging to their grandparents perished, but he was not a part of their everyday life. We couldn’t hide Penny’s death from them. How do you tell a child? My wife and I intuitively understood we had to be honest, but we didn’t know how to explain the situation. As expected, they didn’t truly understand. They seemed to believe us that Penny’s body stopped working, but they didn’t get that they would never get to see her again.
We buried her at the home of my parents, who have acres of land that have welcomed the cats I loved growing up. We thought it important for our daughters to watch the process. I could tell they still didn’t comprehend the finality of the action. As I said goodbye for the last time, I knew the job with the girls was just beginning.
Many times, they asked when Penny was going to come back home. They expressed concern about her being outside when it rained. They wanted to visit her in the yard. They constantly said they missed her.
All I could do was say I missed her, too.
Penelope died in early July. I tried to write about her multiple times over the past four months. A few sentences would pour forth before I hit the emotional levee. I wasn’t ready to process 17 years of memories.
As Thanksgiving approached, I figured it was time to push past the embankments. I’m not to the point where thinking about her doesn’t bring on the waterworks, but I’m working my way to allowing gratefulness to rule my demeanor.
I’m still keenly missing her presence, but I’m able to look back on the good stuff with happiness. How she liked to jump into the refrigerator to explore. How she loved crawling into a cave made out of blankets every night in our bed. How she shivered in my arms with relief and elation when we would return from a vacation. How her voice mixed with purring when she was happy. How she adored sitting in sinks. How she came to sit inside my pants when I hit the toilet (yes, really).
Mostly, though, how she cherished me. A pure love. It didn’t matter whether I had failed or succeeded, felt great about life or despondent; she emanated joy simply being near me. How fortunate am I to experience a connection like that for the better part of two decades? I wish we had more time. I wish my children had known her longer. But the period we shared was miraculous and essential.
I realized my friend had been right: she was gone, but she never left me.
Penny, thank you for existing. Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for every bit of love.
