Prussia passed away this morning, at 5:45. She was resting on our bed when the end came, so the three of us were together.

The loss of our dear feline friend leaves an enormous void in our lives.

She loved walking in the woods, especially on Barry’s parents’ property on Camano Island. There’s where her final resting place will be.

Every morning, I wake up with the cat on my feet. That’s normal, for people who sleep with cats. But it’s become a source of terror for me, and I spend my first few moments contemplating my fear. What happens if I move my foot and the cat doesn’t? Finally, I get up my nerve and slowly slide my foot out from under her inert body. She twitches in response, and I breathe a sigh of relief. We have both lived another day.

Trying to get her to eat is my daily challenge. After a week without food, she finally consented to sip some of that magical elixir, tuna water. We even snuck some tuna into the water, and she ate that. But then she stopped, and we got desperate.

Perhaps the tuna water wasn’t fresh enough. We abandoned the open can in the fridge and opened another. And another. And … We talked with a good friend about the problem. “Try Fancy Feast. I don’t know what they put in there, but any cat will eat that stuff.” It worked for a couple of days. Now the half-full cans of Fancy Feast sit on top of the half-full tuna cans in the fridge. “Have you tried baby food?” asked the checker in the grocery store. Now there’s a half jar of baby food in there, too. Barry remembered a cat that lived to the ripe old age of 25 on cottage cheese. Prussia ate a teaspoon of the stuff. Now she has two shelves of half-eaten food in the fridge.

In the middle of respiratory bug that had me flat on my back for three days, I dragged myself into the kitchen, got out the saucepan, and set to work. I used tuna oil, butter, and flour to make a particularly odiferous (even with a stuffed-up nose) roux. I thinned it with fish and chicken stock and seasoned it with nutritional yeast, Prussia’s favorite. Then I spooned out a small dish of this “kitty gravy,” cooled it slightly, and presented it to the patient. She sighed, stood up on wobbly legs, and turned around, her backside facing the dish. “Suit yourself!” I harrumphed.

Barry and I are like anxious mother hens, using every excuse to go into the bedroom and check on her. She spends most of her days at the foot of our mattress on the floor, sleeping or sitting quietly. I try not to pester her, watching from the door until a twitching tail or ear lets me know that it is still “business as usual.” Occasionally, she gets annoyed with the attention and retreats under another bed. Then I have to get all the way down on the floor to see her tiny dark form. She glances up at me, serene, making me feel like a total fool, groveling on my hands and knees after the cat.

She has always been a proud cat, strutting gracefully with both head and awe-inspiring tail held high. I’m sure that’s the way she’ll want to be remembered. Me, I’m not proud. Maybe I can get her to eat by crawling around on the carpet on my hands and knees with this jar of baby food in one hand and a spoon in the other. The poor cat will probably die laughing. And I’m sure she’ll remember me that way.

Yesterday, we took Prussia to the vet. We’d called ahead, letting him know that we wanted to set up a hospice plan for her.

He was kind, gentle, and nice, and Margaret was coping well at the time; I was almost able to keep my voice modulated normally, and my eyes were just a little moist. He explained that cats are very good at conserving their last energies, and that Prussia had used up most of her reserves by now. “It’s like you’re used to living on a dollar a day, but then you have no income, so you figure out how to live on a penny a day. Now you only have eleven cents in the bank, so you figure out how to live on a quarter of a cent a day.”

On the way home, we stopped at our friend Margaret’s house. We’d lived there for a year with Prussia, and she and Margaret’s cat, Clingon, were mortal enemies. When the van door was opened, Prussia started walking toward it like she was ready for a walk. So I put her harness and leash on. She walked me up the front steps, around the house to the back door. She knew the house, and wanted to be let in. When she saw her nemesis through the glass door, suddenly she showed her old aggressive streak, growling and hissing and almost lunging at him. I said to Prussia “Those eleven cents are yours to spend — do whatever you want with them!” We kept them separated, because this time, he might win the fight.

I don’t like the price I’m paying for all this, but I am amazed at how I have a much better understanding of what really is important. I remember saying a few years ago that I would be really sad someday because Prussia would eventually die, and I’ve been failing to groom her well enough to keep her coat clean and free of mats. (She did the job very well when she was much younger.) I was afraid she would die with her fur all a mess. It would have been easier if Prussia liked being groomed, but she doesn’t. Now I regret that just a week ago, I groomed her until she got mad at me.

Margaret has often told me the story of how this little tiny ball of fluff with a huge voice and every parasite known to feline-kind appeared outside her apartment. Since she had no cat food, Margaret gave her tuna, which figured prominently in her own menu at the time. Prussia has loved it ever since; she always got the water drained off, while Margaret got the fish (sometimes, Prussia got a little of the fish too). Menus have changed, and I never really liked canned tuna, so it’s become a rare treat for her. It took us five days after Prussia stopped eating cat food to realize that it was time to feed her anything she would eat. At first, we tried ice cream, milk, and cheese. People recommended Fancy Feast and baby food. But you should have seen her perk up when we brought a can of tuna to the bedroom and opened it in front of her. She slurped down the water and started eating again. She came into our world with canned tuna. She’s probably going to leave our world on canned tuna, too.

When I was thirteen, we stopped having traditional Christmases. Twenty-plus years of shopping, decorating, and cooking for six children had worn my mother out. Mom and Dad and I fled the Midwest for Florida that year. I still feel guilty, leaving my older siblings with a crummy artificial tree while I frolicked among sable palms. On the other hand, they were delighted to have the house to themselves, unsupervised.

Years later, when I met Barry and his family, I was astounded to find all the Christmas traditions, alive and well. Here was a family that actually decorated the house and played carols on the piano. They wrapped every single present, including the ones that go in the stockings, embellishing them with ribbons and bows. Barry was famous for his creativity at disguising presents, as well as for doing his wrapping between midnight and 5 a.m.

The house was full of holiday goodies, buckeyes to bourbon balls, artichoke dip with King’s Hawaiian bread, spinach balls, Chex mix, and homemade ice cream. One year, there was a crown pork roast, with paper frills that we put on our fingers as puppets. Grandma always sent a massive box of homemade cookies, each icebox cookie or cherry chew wrapped individually,

As if this wasn’t enough, the Stellrechts did not merely buy a Christmas tree. They always cut their tree. In Ohio, for many years, this entailed a drive to Timbuk Tree Farm. There was a lot of walking around in the mud — “How about this one? This one?” and finally, “This one!” Then each family member would take a turn on their knees, sawing at the base with a bow saw until the tree fell down. An ancient school bus came around to pick up chilled people and their trees and return them to the farm hall, with a crackling wood fire, hot chocolate, and carols blasted over Army-style PA speakers.

Arriving home with the tree, there was still work to do. The bottom had to be re-sawn, providing Barry’s sister Julie with a slice of wood to make into an ornament. The tree was set up and festooned with lights and silver garland, which they call “rope” to distinguish it from the tinsel.

There were boxes and boxes of ornaments, made of glass, wood, paper, metal, fabric — even a plaster Santa that weighs a ton (and always goes on a fat, sturdy branch!). They represented school projects, gifts from old friends, memories. The ornament with the smoke alarm received new batteries, while an ancient angel perched on the top branch. We spent more time discussing the “ormanents” than actually hanging them!

Meanwhile, a pot of oyster stew bubbled on the stove, a tradition from Dave’s family. On the farm in Wisconsin, with plenty of home-grown meat and produce, I bet those Christmas Eve canned oysters were a treat! It reminded me of Christmas Eve with my family in South Carolina — we’d dig fresh oysters from the mud, clean ‘em, roast ‘em, and slurp ‘em out of the shell. No Christmas trees, but we Schultes did have some traditions.

Julie and her family have continued the tree tradition in Ohio, visiting Timbuk Tree Farm every year with their two kids. Barry’s parents retired and moved to Camano Island in 1997, choosing a home with a view of Port Susan…across their neighbor’s tiny Christmas tree farm. A mixed blessing, as the darn trees grow higher every year.

In December, Dave and Sharon march across the street with their bow saw, select the biggest view-blocker they can find, and carry it home. One year, they cut down a hemlock –free, but lousy for decorating. All the old traditions continue: Christmas music on the record player, the familiar ornaments, oyster stew. Even the precious leaded tinsel, removed from the tree each year and saved for the next, because you can’t buy it.

This year, the day was cloudy and cool. I’d gone into the bedroom to put on an extra sweater and find my hat. I hesitated, then grabbed the camera. I knew we had digital photos of the tree-cutting from 1999; surely we didn’t need more of the same? Outside the front door, I stopped in my tracks.

What’s this I see? The garden cart — are we going to roll the tree back, instead of carrying it? When my eye fell on the chainsaw, I started laughing. This was family tradition, with a twist!

Dave and Sharon had already selected their tree, a monstrous 20-foot Douglas Fir. Dave disappeared from sight when he crawled into the lower branches to hack some off with a hatchet. Then, with a loud roar, he fired up the chainsaw and began trimming branches up to 6 feet from the ground. Sharon and I loaded them into the cart, and Barry gamely hauled three heavy loads to the chipping pile. One branch held a tiny hidden bird’s nest, to bring us good luck.

Then Dave sawed most of the way through the bottom. Sharon and Barry, on their knees, did the last bit with the bow saw, the traditional way. I took photos and hollered “timberrrrrrrrr” when it finally toppled.

Six-and-a-half feet of the trunk went to the woodpile, and four feet of silly, straggly stuff was lopped off the top. We threw the rest atop the cart and dragged it, ignominiously, back to the house.

What do you do with a tree that’s nine and a half feet tall and ten feet across? Prune it carefully! As Sharon said, trimming away with her favorite pruners, “It won’t grow back if I mess up.” Even trimmed to eight feet across, there’s only one place for it: Smack dab in the middle of the living room. It dominates the room; when you sit in a chair on one side of the living room, all you see is TREE. You can’t see anyone on the other side of the room.

Remember that silly, straggly branch that got lopped off the top? It didn’t go to the chipping pile. It’s right here, in our living room, decorated with our collection of ornaments. It may be the funniest Charlie Brown tree ever, but it has two advantages: You can walk all the way around it, and yes, you can still see the person on the other side!