Yesterday was my kitty’s sixth birthday!

This precious little beast is definitely my cat, for all the terror and trouble she can be as a little monster. She’s also purring affection and cuddles with me, sweet grooming of my toes, and snoozing on my bed (well, our bed – she believes it’s hers, too) day or night.

Which is why it was a heart rending moment on her April 1st birthday that I came to realize I’ve already had half the time I am likely to have with her. What do I mean?

Cats, in my experience, live about 12 years. The numbers for a female indoor-only cat tends towards a higher number on paper (14 to 20) – but this is my first indoor-only cat so I tend to be a bit more pessimistic due to my indoor-outdoor model. At six, this means I can only honestly expect another six years with my spoiled baby kitty.

The future is uncertain. We could lose Pixie tomorrow. She could live to be a ripe old lady, beyond any of our expectations. Her recent decision to accept wet food – after disdaining it for five years – is good for her digestive system long term, but her chonky fat-cat nature is not great for the future. A little of column A, a bit of column B.

I do know that when I lose her, I’m going to be a wreck. This little furball has sunk her kitty-claws into my heart (as well as my arm last night) and is so special to me. Her antics bring me joy, even when she’s frustrating, and this is the first cat that is not someone else’s that I live with, or at best “the family cat”, but truly my kitty. I chose her, my spouse decreed she was mine, and she sold me on that over the years. So knowing that we’re moving towards the second half of that period was sobering.

Yet is also made the day more special, in a bittersweet way. We are the life she knows, and she seems to be a happy cat with that.