warning: sentimental entry

I've been in my Oklahoma house for almost 11 years, and shortly after I moved in, I was joined by a special four-legged blue-eyed friend. One very cold winter day, I spotted a beautiful cat climbing on a neighbor's fence behind my house. The next day, she was on my front porch asking to come inside. She came and went for a few days, and as it got colder and colder, I told her that if she came back again, she'd stay for good. Yes, I cat-napped her, but she didn't have a collar, there were no lost kitty signs, and it was freezing outside. She was first called Cleo, because according to "French for Cats," it was an acceptable name. However, I mixed up my syllables and she quickly became Chloe.

Putting my American life on hold wasn't an easy thing to do, and I was relieved when Nathalie agreed to adopt my cats for the year. I knew they'd be happier in their own home, but it was still tough to leave them behind. I briefly considered bringing them with me, but the long flight, pet passports and screen-less windows in France changed my mind for me. After a trip to the vet for shots and a microchip in case of escape, I felt a little better but still had a sinking feeling that something would happen while I was away. My sinking feelings are almost always right, and this one was no different. Chloe got very sick last week and after several tearful conversations with my mom and a worrisome message from the vet, I decided that she was suffering and I had to let her go. She was my very first pet as an adult and my best girl. I know, I know, those of you who had the pleasure of meeting her were usually greeted with growling, hissing and an occasional bite (hey, she warned you), but she was different with me. It's difficult to imagine that she won't be there when I get home. I'll miss her meows for water on the bathroom sink, her head butts, our afternoon naps and how she bossed Thisbe around. She was a good kitty, my Queen of the Bed, my Clo-Clo, my blue-eyed calico girl.