Goodbye, Ginger.

Ginger, the house's "original cat", died around 3AM today. She failed to weather the flu she caught early this year, even after being brought to the SPCA (Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) yesterday and had and IV stuck into her.

Watson, who got sick at the same time she did, is doing better. He's the oldest cat now. Most of the cats we have, and had, descended from Ginger (3 of the kittens are Hazel's). She's buried in the flower box outside the gate.

Ginger was young when she started wandering into the back garden, and oftentimes she'd rest on the windowsill outside my room. One night, she was playing tag with another cat and crashed into the old doghouse. The metal foot of the doghouse gave way and pinned her leg down. My mom and I heard her loud wailing and rushed out to see what happened. My mom saw her under the dog house and we lifted it to free her. She ran away as fast as she could given her bad leg.

A few days later, my mom started to smell something bad and realized the maimed cat has decided to hide under the broken down gas range. She was still nursing her wounded leg, which is where the bad smell was coming from. We realized the cat would die if she did not come out to hunt. We didn't want the cat to die in our house, nor did we want to place her on the street in her condition. My mom and I decided she should be fed but we can't coax her out of her hiding place. I was munching on a meat ball and by instinct took it out of my mouth, and placed it on my hand and started calling the cat. It was delightful to watch her slowly approach me, sniff the food, and delicately eat it from my hand.

We took care of her after that till her leg mended...sort of. She often hopped on her other three legs, but she uses that leg when she's running or climbing. I named her Ginger and she immediately took to responding to that name. When she was around, she often stayed in the laundry area. She would let me carry her and I would then take her in the house for a few minutes.

My dad, who spent most of his life hitting cats with a slingshot (even when he was already 60 or 70), warned me she might bite or give me some germs. That never happened. After a few months, it was my parents who surprised me by letting the cat sleep inside the house.

One night, she started scratching on our bedroom doors and meowing loudly, that my brother woke up. She was warning us that 2 snakes had entered the house. My brother killed the snakes, and Ginger earned the right to sleep in my parents' room. She was one spoiled cat. She had the right to leave and enter the house at will, while the other cats are lucky to even step inside the house.

Since it's my mom and brother who usually feed the cats, most of the cats usually ignore me or are even afraid of me. Ginger on the other hand, often approaches and greets me by rubbing against my foot when I arrive home from work on weekdays or when I sit in the living room after I wake up on weekends. I guess she remembers that the first food our family fed her came from me, and it was I who gave her a name and bought her first plate.

Being the oldest cat, every other cat in the house respected her. She only had to jump in during catfights for the brawl to stop.

Princess, who often sleeps with her on the terrace, is already looking for her mom.

Gonna miss my Ginger bear.