Emma gave me five days this past week to come to terms with her passing. Like everything she did, she did it her way. And I’m grateful.
She came into my life on my birthday, 8 weeks of spitfire, ready to rule the resident Great Danes in the house and become Harley’s best bud. Shelby, Einstein and Duncan knew right away they had met their match and when she’d plop all 3 lbs in the middle of one of their giant beds, they would just back away slowly.
While she loved Harley, she only tolerated the other cats in the house over the years. She was a dog cat, she loved all her Great Danes.
She raised Bixby. And adored him.
She was enjoying showing Trixie who was boss, too.
She had an excellent last year – very healthy after we got her chronic pancreatitis under control. And there was a standing rule that everyone who came to my house knew, since she was about 17, the rule was, “Emma is (17, 18, 19) she gets to do what she wants” as she broke all kinds of rules including jumping on the table and eating off my plate. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
And as you know, shelters are full and we now have space, so there will be a new addition, it just may have to wait until the puppy is a little bigger. Although, if she’s anything like Sully, a little spitfire girl may pop up and refuse to be ignored. 💖