In a Patch of Sunlight
By Marisa Price
For Whitney and Don and Elaine Price

	 Even after all of my childhood memories have faded, one soul will
 remain dear to me and always present in my mind. Whitney, named after
 Mt. Whitney, was the best childhood friend I ever had. Unfortunately,
 Whitney died at the age of ten, and I have always felt as if it was
 my fault, as it was I who decided his fate. It took me two years of
 heartache and tears to finally accept Whitney's death, and understand
 that my choice was the most humane and loving one possible.
	 As I am only child, my experiences outside of school as a child 
were solitary. I had to come up with my own games and my own 
make-believe friends, and I spent more time with my nose between the 
covers of a book than I did interacting with people. When my mother 
suggested that we would get a kitten when I turned five, I of course 
seized the idea of a tiny living friend with vigor. Whitney was a 
six-week old kitten, one of a batch, each of the kittens were white 
and all had small grey patches on their heads in varying numbers. 
Whitney was the one-spot bit of fluff, and he stood out to me the 
first time I saw him. This kitten stayed close to his mother's site, 
and he did not fight or bite or even meow pitifully as did his more 
rambunctious sisters and brothers. Despite his shyness, he looked out 
at me with bright green understanding eyes. I knew he recognizes me 
as I did him, when he slowly got up on teetering legs and hobbled 
toward me, let me hold him, and cooed a sweet rumble within his tiny 
chest. With a lick on my hand and a swat at a lock of my long golden 
hair, Whitney won my little girl heart. I had found a kindred soul.
	 As many kittens do, Whitney brought me as many tiresome chores as 
he did hours of joy and contentment. It was my job to feed him and 
keep him clean, but I was rewarded with adoration and respect from my 
little friend. And together we began to grow; I became a young woman 
with golden locks cut short, and he began to grow from a gangly white 
kitten with a gray spot on his head into a fine all white cat. As I 
progressed in life I had someone always there, although I eventually 
made several human friends and didn't spend all my time with Whitney 
any more. To most special thing about him was that he always forgave 
me, and was always there to comfort at the call of his name. After 
all, Whitney was more a human tome than a cat, and even after I 
reached my teens I would still sit and tell him my sorrows. He would 
sit patiently and listen, his long-furred white tail swaying, and 
then rise when I was done and sit in my lap as if to console.
	Whitney also had a sense of when he was needed simply for affection.
When I was sick he would wander into the room and curl up on my bed,
spending long hours at my side, keeping an eye on me. I never thought
I would be sitting at his side as he was ill, perhaps going to die.
The first sign of the illness appeared in late 1989. I could feel a
lump at the bottom of one of Whitney's feet. I told my mother, and she
just assumed it was a bruise. But the bruise got bigger and bigger
until we finally sought medical care. And there it was in the x-ray,
shocking in its undeniable black and white. Whitney had cancer, and
the foul thing had crept its way throughout his leg. The veterinarian
told us that his leg had to be removed or the cancer would soon take
over his body. Of course it had to be done, but I felt horrible about
it, and we had been informed that even if the leg was amputated there
was still no guarantee the cancer could be stopped.
 	The surgery was done, with apparent success, but Whitney's ninth
 birthday was no celebration. He hobbled, he could not go to the
 bathroom himself, eat, or walk. He was constantly in pain, and cried
 out often when he tried to walk a short distance. The pain was
 obviously horrible, and there were drugs for that, but what could we
 do to ease the mental and physical grief? I felt guilt,  horrible
 awful guilt, because Whitney had always been there for me, but when
 he most needed me I was not there. In his condition he needed
 constant care, and I was too busy in school to care for him as he had
 done for me. I was sixteen, and parties and homework and boys lured
 me away from his side. However, Whitney was brave; he began to try to
 overcome his pain and disability. It was an amazing sight to see him
 running, yes running, around on three legs. Eventually we were even
 able to let him outside of the house again, and my parents and I
 watched in shocked awe as Whitney jumped to the tops of fences and
 over obstacles.
	 Whitney's recovery brought my family closer together. Both my 
parents worked, and I was often home after school by myself. I had 
developed my own life, and they were just the people who paid for my 
clothes and fed me. My parents and I were friends and loved each 
other, but we each respected the other's independence. Through our 
love for this miraculous cat we realized that it was all right to 
need each other, and to be independent but to know when to set our 
pride aside and ask for help. I told them I needed them to be there 
for me more often, and they tried their best. In the end, we had more 
time for each other and we have been a closer family ever since. 
	Whitney was a testimony of love overcoming all. He was happy and 
healthy, loving and loyal. But there are some things no one can 
overcome, no matter how much love is poured out, suchas that creeping 
cancer that has killed so many that were dearly loved by the world. 
And so, it all unseen crawled up his veins and quickened in his 
blood. Whitney is dead. He died of cancer in 1990.
	 I began to notice small lumps all over Whitney's body, on his head 
and on his sides. You could not touch him without feeling the hard 
tissue bumps under his skin. He grew weaker and weaker, I had to hand 
feed him and watch him at all times. But it wasn't working, he grew 
worse. There was a loud rattle with every breath and every gasp was 
as if it were his last. I finally could not stand it anymore, I saw 
him laying, chest vibrating, horrible noises emitting from his 
throat. I took Whitney into the doctor. Just me. And they killed him. 
	The X-rays again showed me what I did not want to see: huge lumps in 
his small lungs and all over Whitney's body. The veterinarian said he 
could give him drugs to ease the pain, but even with those drugs he 
could only last a week more, if that at all. Or, the veterinarian 
told me gently, he could end Whitney's misery. I cried and denied 
hysterically the facts. I called my mother and father and begged 
their advice. I was seventeen but a child again, I could not think or 
understand. Everyone told me to end it. If I loved him I should end 
it.
	 I held Whitney in my arms one last time before they took him 
away. I felt his softness and his warmth, his hot breath as he kissed 
me to tell me it was all right. A rough, familiar kiss. I felt as if 
he did not know what was to be done. How could I tell him? Clots of 
hair fell around me as they took him away. I was inconsolable as I 
walked out to my car to drive home, and I carried the empty cage in 
my arms, knowing my friend would in a moment be gone forever. Whitney 
was my brother and my comforter, my companion and my confidant. I who 
loved him best, I who needed him most, felt as much his executioner 
as the veterinarian who would give him death. 
	I had Whitney cremated as I could not imagine the worms and bugs 
eating away at his already destroyed body. I wanted Whitney buried at 
home, in the front yard where he had always love to lie in, amidst 
our flowers and trees, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Whitney came 
home in a cedar box, locked with a golden lock with no key, and a 
plaque that simply said "Whitney, The Best Cat". It was as if Whitney 
had been locked out of my life forever.
	 It took me two years to overcome Whitney's death. It was as if part 
of my soul was destroyed on that day he died. I felt grief and guilt, 
and only in maturity did I realize that I had made the best possible 
decision. I will always wish that Whitney was still alive, or even 
that I could have given him the gift of life. Yet it was Whitney's 
time, and I can now believe that he died knowing that I loved him. 
After all, Whitney was a very intelligent cat, and he was more to me 
than the average human. Whitney was a true and loyal friend, not 
often found in any species. I am sure I shall meet up with Whitney 
again, in the glory of whatever follows this mundane life. I can see 
him waiting for me, relaxed and whole, in a patch of sunlight.