R.I.P. Zikara

There are no more fleas in the house. There is also no more Zikara.

Zikara is one of the two cats I had been living with. Now there is only one.

Three days ago, Zikara died unexpectedly when my roommate was giving her a second flea bath using natural flea shampoo. She had an allergic reaction to one of the ingredients and died within ten minutes right on the bathroom floor. By the time I came home, my roommate had already buried her at her friend's garden, where another one of her cats had been buried there before.

I can close my eyes and still remember the weight of her warm body held close against my arms. She was big and heavy, and always gazed up at my face with large and luminous eyes in the kitty equivalent of a sad puppy stare.

She seldom made any noise. When I picked her up and squeezed her before tossing her out of my room, she would every so often give out a soft, feeble mew that was as small as she was big.

As a neat parlor trick that endlessly amused my friends, she had an unusual way of pawing out a kitty palmful of catnip from an open jar and eating it directly from her cupped paw, bent in front of her mouth, in the manner of a small child. No joke.

Zikara and the other black cat used to take naps together out on the patio, curled up around each other in a circular ball, making a kitty yin and yang of contentment under a small patch of sunlight. Now all there is left of her are the clumps of gray fur still matted within the apartment living room carpet.

Rest in peace, Zikara. I hope kitty heaven is treating you well.