Losing part of the family

Nikki was a much-traveled, well-loved cat, and had been part of the Coleman family off and on for as long as the kids can remember, until she died Tuesday night. We believe she was 21 years old.

Nikki was not actually our cat -- she was Jeannie's cat. But she's lived in our house off and on for probably 10 years. Cate's family rescued her when she was abandoned by downstairs neighbors in the Chesterfield Apartments in Levittown, Pa., sometime before Cate left for college in the fall of 1990. Nikki was not fully grown yet. She had been left on the balcony of the apartment when the renters moved out and they heard her meowing.

Nikki lived with us for most of a decade, starting in our Reston townhouse, where she joined us and Todd, before Todd died in November 2001. She came with us when we bought the house in Sterling and Patty took care of her there before Patty left for Ireland.

She loved the back of the chair, and as a baby Robert (this photo is April 2004) loved to play with her. She was very calm and peaceful, sitting almost like a statue of a cat. She would roll over and expose her tummy for you to pet. She had an insistent purr, probably like most cats, but really wanted you to continue petting her.

My brother, Ryan, has long been a cat lover and took Nikki home with him on a 20-some-hour drive after covering the Stagg Bowl in 2007, at a time when we had three kids and were still trying to manage two children who were under 5 along with two nearly full-time jobs. We visited her a couple times at Ryan's place while living with mom and dad. But she came to live with us when we bought the house here. And we've known she was on her last legs for a long time.

Nikki was diagnosed with breast cancer about six months ago, and it was clear the spring in her step was long gone. When she was younger, the kids used to love playing with her, using the flashlight to throw spots on the wall or the floor that she would attack. She and Todd co-existed well. Nikki only walked out onto the back deck of the house in Sterling a few times, and a quick rattle of the food container always brought her running back.

She never lost her love of eating, however, or her plaintive meow when she thought it was time to be fed. She couldn't jump up on the kitchen countertop anymore, but the table was still accessible (if she was able to use the chair as a launching point). To the last, she would be so insistent on eating that she would stick her head in the food bowl while you were pouring it, meaning you had to battle her to get the food in the bowl and not all over the floor.

When Nikki went to the vet Tuesday night, we knew she wasn't coming back. Elizabeth understood. Robert had been prepped many times but still didn't fully understand until I called him over, sat him on my lap and told him Nikki would not be coming home. He cried. Colleen perhaps still doesn't understand -- last night she talked again about "when Nikki comes home from the vet" and I decided to use the D word in response and tell her Nikki died. She had a sad look on her face, and I told her it was OK to be sad, so she cried. But she was on to the next train of thought in a couple of minutes.

Todd died the night before Thanksgiving in 2001 and we buried him at the edge of the backyard in Reston, eventually covered by a flagstone to keep scavengers away. We'll do a short memorial service and place a marker in our garden for Nikki.

Thanks for letting her be part of our lives, Jeannie.