Ivy
A donation was made in memory of Ivy by Doctors and Staff of the Feline Medical Clinic on Feb 09, 2011.
Miss Ivy
Ivy adopted me. She was a large, muscular grey Chartreux and lived across the street from my new home with a young boy who would pull her tail all the time and kick her down the sidewalk. I watched in pain from my kitchen window as this undisciplined child would treat her so badly, not like the beautiful girl she was. Very soon, however, Ivy quietly appeared in my back yard, just watching me with bright, golden eyes while I was gardening. Then she came closer and asked for some affection. Then one day she was at my back door, asking to come inside for a visit. What a sweet, calm, loving kitty she was. I told her out loud that she could visit me any time she wanted. The next night, she asked to come in, jumped on the sofa, and never again went back to her original home. She chose me to be her new family, and she was obviously very, very happy.
Ivy had been born in 1986, per other neighbors, which made her 7 years old when she moved in. She was absolutely gorgeous; the perfect Chartreux with double-thick grey fur, petite feet, and a smile. She made faces at me, played with anything, and chatted and purred constantly. She gently brought me gifts like lizards, small birds, baby mice, and dragonflies. She never hurt them, just carefully caressed them in her mouth as if they were tiny kittens. She would follow me around the house like a puppy, and she loved to ride in the car. One day it seemed as if Ivy were asking to come into the shower with me. Yup … she wanted a bath! And about once a month afterward, she would step into the water and purr while I washed her thick fur. What a beautiful and fun and funny girl!
One hot summer night in 1995, I heard the oddest sound through the open windows. And again. What on earth is that! I opened the front door to find my precious Ivy, not 10 feet from the front step, with her head in the jaws of a coyote. The sound I’d heard was her trying to scream. Without even thinking, I immediately ran to the coyote, yelling at the top of my lungs, got on the ground, pounded on the coyote’s head, and grabbed Ivy from its mouth! My little girl and I both ended up at the ER that night. I visited Ivy twice a day, but four days later the trauma clinic vet called and told me I needed to come and take her home. She told me Ivy was too depressed, and if I didn’t become her personal nurse, she would die. She was so sick, tubes coming out of her head and throat, but over several weeks, I did nurse her back to fat-and-happy health. I would have 15 more years with my girl.
I read a plaque recently: “If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.” Ivy was with me better than 17 years. She was the smartest cat I’ve ever known! She learned our version of sign language; she obviously understood so many words of English that I started writing them down; she would “whisper” to me; and she taught herself “tricks.” For example, it took me awhile to realize that whenever I said “time for sleep,” she would put her head down on her front paws and close her eyes. As many people have said about their favorite cats, she was my best friend.
But Ivy was 24, about 107 in human years. She’d been very gradually losing her sight, and had been coping with her own aging with much patience and dignity. We had taken a nap together that October morning, and she was as loving as ever. But I think she had what humans would call a stroke. Suddenly she couldn’t rise up from lying down and would only whisper. At the Feline Clinic, I stroked and kissed Ivy, and asked her if she was tired, was she ready to go. Dr. Burhenn had told me years earlier that I would know when it was time. I’m so glad I was home with Ivy that day, to be with her when she left. But there will always be a hole in my heart. We loved each other so much. I will forever miss my little girl, my sweet Ivy.
Paula K.
Ivy adopted me. She was a large, muscular grey Chartreux and lived across the street from my new home with a young boy who would pull her tail all the time and kick her down the sidewalk. I watched in pain from my kitchen window as this undisciplined child would treat her so badly, not like the beautiful girl she was. Very soon, however, Ivy quietly appeared in my back yard, just watching me with bright, golden eyes while I was gardening. Then she came closer and asked for some affection. Then one day she was at my back door, asking to come inside for a visit. What a sweet, calm, loving kitty she was. I told her out loud that she could visit me any time she wanted. The next night, she asked to come in, jumped on the sofa, and never again went back to her original home. She chose me to be her new family, and she was obviously very, very happy.
Ivy had been born in 1986, per other neighbors, which made her 7 years old when she moved in. She was absolutely gorgeous; the perfect Chartreux with double-thick grey fur, petite feet, and a smile. She made faces at me, played with anything, and chatted and purred constantly. She gently brought me gifts like lizards, small birds, baby mice, and dragonflies. She never hurt them, just carefully caressed them in her mouth as if they were tiny kittens. She would follow me around the house like a puppy, and she loved to ride in the car. One day it seemed as if Ivy were asking to come into the shower with me. Yup … she wanted a bath! And about once a month afterward, she would step into the water and purr while I washed her thick fur. What a beautiful and fun and funny girl!
One hot summer night in 1995, I heard the oddest sound through the open windows. And again. What on earth is that! I opened the front door to find my precious Ivy, not 10 feet from the front step, with her head in the jaws of a coyote. The sound I’d heard was her trying to scream. Without even thinking, I immediately ran to the coyote, yelling at the top of my lungs, got on the ground, pounded on the coyote’s head, and grabbed Ivy from its mouth! My little girl and I both ended up at the ER that night. I visited Ivy twice a day, but four days later the trauma clinic vet called and told me I needed to come and take her home. She told me Ivy was too depressed, and if I didn’t become her personal nurse, she would die. She was so sick, tubes coming out of her head and throat, but over several weeks, I did nurse her back to fat-and-happy health. I would have 15 more years with my girl.
I read a plaque recently: “If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.” Ivy was with me better than 17 years. She was the smartest cat I’ve ever known! She learned our version of sign language; she obviously understood so many words of English that I started writing them down; she would “whisper” to me; and she taught herself “tricks.” For example, it took me awhile to realize that whenever I said “time for sleep,” she would put her head down on her front paws and close her eyes. As many people have said about their favorite cats, she was my best friend.
But Ivy was 24, about 107 in human years. She’d been very gradually losing her sight, and had been coping with her own aging with much patience and dignity. We had taken a nap together that October morning, and she was as loving as ever. But I think she had what humans would call a stroke. Suddenly she couldn’t rise up from lying down and would only whisper. At the Feline Clinic, I stroked and kissed Ivy, and asked her if she was tired, was she ready to go. Dr. Burhenn had told me years earlier that I would know when it was time. I’m so glad I was home with Ivy that day, to be with her when she left. But there will always be a hole in my heart. We loved each other so much. I will forever miss my little girl, my sweet Ivy.
Paula K.
