An Overdue Eulogy for Lucy Fur

In the summer of 2021, my life was a dumpster fire in myriad ways and things especially reached a crescendo in the weeks after my cat, Lucy Fur, was diagnosed with feline lymphoma. The fact it was lymphoma, which took the lives of my father, grandmother, and uncle made it all the harder to accept the diagnosis – how many precious losses to the same fricking cancer can one person withstand, you know?

Between her age and how advanced the condition was by the time of its discovery, no treatment plan could even potentially cure her. The only option was to start her on steroids in hopes of keeping her eating and more comfortable and I must confess that I let the period of her decline linger too long. When I finally made the call to escort her to the rainbow bridge two weeks after her diagnosis, it was evident how miserable she felt. I kept allowing myself to see a momentary perking up as a sign that it wasn’t time yet. The vet initially offered guidance that as long as she was still eating, she was probably comfortable enough, which I allowed to completely override my common sense; he offered solid advice, but ALL she was doing was eating in that final week because her body couldn’t hang onto enough nutrients from the food on account of constant puking and pooping.

When I finally accepted the inevitable mentally, I entirely shut down emotionally. Sure, I cried quite a lot in the days afterward. But as I wrote about in the short story, “Happy Birthday, Evan,” despite an abundance of practice in dealing with death in my life since an early age, I’ve utterly failed to learn how to grieve healthily. In the case of Lucy, what I kept telling myself was that she’d had such a long life; most people don’t get so much time with their furry friends and I was just lucky we had as much as we did. And aside from the terrible illness at the end, she’d had a fairly healthy and comfortable life. I guess I felt like I needed to honor these blessings by focusing on the positive, at the expense of suppressing the immense sadness. I was also dealing with a lot of other heavy things at the time and was in a completely overwhelmed state that I now understand was creating a lot of dysregulation.

“Without a wise way to grieve, we can only soldier on, armored and unfeeling, but our hearts cannot learn and grow from the sorrows of the past.”

Jack Kornfield

Finally, after doing a lot of work to get more in touch with my feelings and learn about the art of letting go, I’m at last ready to offer my furever friend the sendoff I was incapable of two years ago. So, here goes:

Lucy Fur Hackett left the earthly plane on July 20, 2021, following a short but difficult battle with feline lymphoma.

Lucy Fur initially came into my life as just Lucy, but her feisty temperament earned the addition of her middle name, Fur, when she was about a year or so old. Around that same time, a friend remarked about her frequent physical altercations with guests at my apartment: “To know her is to bear her mark.”

I came to discover that some of her violent behavior was related to becoming overstimulated; once I learned her cues and triggers, there were far less dramatic situations. But even in her old age, she retained her spunk and desire to occasionally draw blood. I attributed her aggressive tendencies to a rocky start to life.

Lucy came to my life by way of my friend, Manny. One day at Schenley Park with a friend, Manny came upon a fellow who was clearly on drugs of some kind and in a pretty rough state and selling a box of tiny black kittens. These babies were so tiny that it was evident they should not yet have been separated from their mother, let alone spending the hot summer day getting toted around Pittsburgh by some unsavory guy looking to hawk them to anyone willing to cough up a few bucks.

To save the kitties from a bad situation, the two of them bought the whole box. They were able to find homes for all but the runt. Although Manny was not permitted furry friends while living at home, on account of a sister with a severe allergy, he didn’t want to part with this kitten and thought maybe he could sneak her in and out long enough to buy time to get a place of his own.

She went everywhere with Manny for several weeks, even riding city buses in his backpack. Her name actually came from one such ride, when a little girl saw Lucy’s tiny face poking out mid-ride and struck up a conversation with Manny. She asked what the kitten’s name was and when Manny responded that she didn’t have one yet, he asked what the little girl thought it should be and from that day forward she was Lucy.

It wasn’t long after that day when Manny took a chance on leaving her locked up in his bedroom as he went to work without any friends available to watch her. Unfortunately, she managed to escape the confines he left her in and delivered a scratch to the allergic sister, resulting in a visit to the doctor for her and a lecture for him from his incredulous mother.

As a cat-lover, I was more than happy to help out in this pinch. Although I didn’t feel like my life was conducive to getting a cat of my own at the time, which was my final semester of undergrad, I knew I could make it work short-term until he moved. I’d met Lucy many times already and was over the moon at the chance to have her cute little kitten self come to stay with me. Her unruly ways had not yet revealed themselves, but it didn’t take long before the soft, fuzzy ball sleeping on me as I prepared for final exams gave way to the crazy cat I came to know and love. After eight months or so of life together, I told Manny I was starting to feel like maybe just maybe she was my cat, and he agreed.  

To offset her violent disposition, the universe blessed her with an equal proportion of sweetness and snuggliness, the likes of which I’d never experienced with another cat before or since. This softer side was reserved mostly for just one person: me. Even after years of living together, my ex-husband was still ecstatic any time he was lucky enough to have even a brief chance to touch her – these were such noteworthy occasions that they warranted text messages exclaiming, “I got three pets in this morning!”

From me, though, she frequently demanded pets and lap time, even going so far as learning how to meow something unmistakably close to the word “mom.” Once I’d sit, I’d be cat-trapped indefinitely by the 7-pound lump of fur melted onto my lap. The intensity of her head bunts was also unsurpassed and sometimes landed like an uppercut, forcing my head back from the velocity.

Lucy slept each night with me, always starting under the blankets nestled in my arms with her head tucked under my chin, her purrs lulling me off to dreamland. Once she got too warm there, she’d move to behind my knees for a while before returning in the early morning hours for more spooning. As a frequent tosser-and-turner, she grew accustomed to shifting from one side of the bed to the other along with me, which I referred to as “synchronized sleeping.”

In spite of a fine collection of toys, she preferred playing with paper bags, packing paper, and, much to my chagrin, maxi pads. (Fortunately, she was only ever interested in the clean, unused ones – I’ve heard horror stories about folks with dogs who aren’t quite so lucky – yuck!) I tried to store the pads in places she couldn’t get to, but she was somehow able to sniff them out and retrieve them from the bottoms of purses and backpacks or dart quickly enough into the bathroom cabinet to snag one in a brief moment that it was open. I recall many times in my twenties when I’d have friends over and out of nowhere, she’d enter the room with one gripped between her teeth, causing an eruption of laughter.

Realizing how much joy they brought her, I eventually allowed a few to be in rotation at all times, and my ex-husband and I came to refer to this collection strewn about the house as “catsy pads.” A few were even decorated by my nieces, who drew little cat faces on them. They’d often be found in piles under couches and bookshelves, such as the time when contractors came to work on our bathroom and needed to move a sofa, resulting in a rather awkward moment.

There’s research suggesting that cat purrs help humans heal injuries, broken bones, and other maladies, and I must share that Lucy was the best nursemaid ever. Her dedication throughout my recovery from getting hit by a bus in 2008 was unsurpassed. She again showed up diligently for this duty following a foot surgery in my thirties, after which she spent the three months that I was off of work glued to my left leg.

Lucy’s healing energy aided in more than just physical recoveries. Anytime I was overwhelmed by difficulties in life, she was there, ready to jump into action and offer solace. Every heartbreak over a break-up would find her ever-present in my lap, reminding me that I was loved and life still had good things to offer. She was more than happy to be my only company during the peak of COVID quarantine. When the stress of jobs or board work would get to me, I could count on her constant companionship, typically by way of her nestled in the crook of my arm as I found creative ways to work without disturbing her.

To say that I was lucky to be her hu-mom would be a drastic understatement. She will be forever missed.

“There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.”

Albert Schweitzer