Chenoa

Chenoa Soufflé Freeland

July 17, 2013 – November 19, 2025

My delicate Dove, my thunder purr, my heart cat, my aloof kitty.

I knew I was meant to get two cats, and even though I hadn’t yet come up with a name for the second, I could already feel her spirit.

I had already met Krishna when I began searching for a name that would match her bold, magical spirit. I wanted something strong enough to sit beside Krishna, and then I found it: a Native American name, “Chenoa,” meaning Dove. The moment her foster mother sent me her picture, I knew she was my Chenoa. Later, I realized that putting their initials together — KC, Kitty Cat — fit perfectly. Their names and spirits were meant to be with me.

She and Krishna were foster sisters, and I hadn’t even met Chenoa in person yet when I went to pre-adopt both of them. There was an issue with pre-adopting Chenoa that day, and I was devastated — it was how strongly I felt she belonged with me. But I managed to work it out and was able to pre-adopt her alongside Krishna. I fought for her because I already knew she was meant to be mine.

Unfortunately, I don’t know much about her circumstances prior to the bottle baby program, only that she likely lost her birth mother at about three weeks old and was brought to the nursery. I was so glad that one of my supervisors was able to get a picture of her in the nursery — I will cherish that forever.

When I brought her home, Chenoa was precious, inquisitive, and playful. She loved curling under the covers and snuggling close to me, yet with strangers, she remained shy, leery, and would often swat at them. She was a true mama’s girl, and to everyone else, she carried herself like a little diva — regal, poised, and entirely her own. A lot of her pictures show her sitting like she was on a throne, so regal. Other pictures looked like she had a resting B face — I couldn’t tell if she was saying, “Mom, please get that camera out of my face,” or if she was just humoring me because she loved me so much.

Chenoa did things on her own terms. She taught me the meaning of “no,” although sometimes it could be maddening — like when she would climb up to the highest kitchen counter, far out of my reach, right when it was time for her asthma medication. She even taught her sister how to do it. But how could you stay mad at that face and those beautiful green eyes? She would come down in her own time, usually about five minutes after I threatened to post her misbehavior on Facebook — something she did in her early years, and it was hilarious.

She had her own ways of communicating and letting me know what she wanted. She politely chirped at my shoulder when she wanted to be let under the covers, kneaded my legs, and pranced around the apartment like a tiny horse — earning her the nickname “Prancer.” She had a catnip addiction (we tried many interventions, lol) and a habit of licking my hands or my tears when I needed comfort. She could even stand on her hind legs to buck into my hand, earning another playful nickname: “Bunkin’ Bronco.” For the longest time, I thought she couldn’t meow — she had her own unique purring-and-vocalizing greeting — until one day I caught her carrying my stuffed bear in her mouth, about a quarter of her size, and realized she could in fact meow. With her personality, it was a perfect combination: delicate, loving, and a diva all at once.

Later in life, we had a ritual: every night I would hold her paw and kiss it. She allowed it with a calm dignity, like she knew she was royalty. We called it “Kiss the Paw,” like a subject greeting their queen — and she truly was the Queen of the World.

She was breathtakingly beautiful: her striking brown cheek markings, which I loved to kiss; her soft coat; the way her eyes often looked like she was wearing eyeliner.

At my parents’ house, she usually stayed quietly in the bedroom while Krishna explored, but sometimes she’d come out to the front room and give a soft, gentle meow — rare enough that I came running every time. Honestly, I would have come running even if she meowed constantly.

Her purr was like thunder and honey. When she would sit on me, I could feel it throughout my whole body .

Seven years ago, when I got sick, both Krishna and Chenoa became my nurses. They would sometimes show up together for shifts, and sometimes take turns. Chenoa’s favorite was bathroom duty because it gave her the chance to perform her signature move, Bunkin’ Bronco. Their attentiveness and love were a constant source of comfort during that difficult time. For the past seven years, she had shared nursing duties with her sister, but unfortunately, IBD slowed her down, and Krishna took over more of the duties.

Chenoa endured so many things in her life. When she came home, she struggled with hot spots, which I could never fully figure out, and I hated that for her. Around one and a half years old, she was diagnosed with asthma and had to use an inhaler for a couple of years — she actually did fairly well with the inhaler, although her pet sitter might disagree. At around four years old, she got a bladder stone that required surgery, and she was not fond of the cone. I had to go out of town a week later, and although I knew she was in good hands with her pet sitter, I was still nervous. She ended up busting her incision open and had to stay at the clinic for the weekend — but she survived, and she was just happy to see me when I picked her up.

At six and a half years old, she was hospitalized for pancreatitis. The hospital staff didn’t want to release her because she had not eaten in 24 hours, but I said, “She’s not going to eat for you.” I brought her home, and she immediately started eating. That’s when I realized she didn’t do well with hospitalizations — but who does? She was given 100 mg of gabapentin at the hospital and still growled, hissed, and swatted at them, but at home, she was fine. She recovered well, but unfortunately soon after, she was diagnosed with IBD. That was when she truly became my delicate little flower. For the most part, it was managed, though she had to take a daily steroid, which likely contributed to her later diabetes. I knew when her stomach was hurting because she would start chewing on anything she could find, often making a lot of noise that drove me crazy at night when I was asleep — I would give anything to hear that noise again. I would get up and give her her heating pad and her anti-nausea medication.

One of the last things Chenoa endured was the loss of her sister.

Even through all her illnesses, Chenoa’s bond with Krishna was extraordinary, and vice versa. I didn’t fully realize how deeply bonded they were until after Krishna passed. In 2016, I had to be away 2–3 nights a week for almost a year for grad school. Even though they had an excellent pet sitter coming twice a day, I was worried about their comfort and happiness. They kept each other together — comforting one another, supporting each other. I would often catch one draping an arm over the other; usually Krishna over Chenoa, but sometimes Chenoa would comfort Krishna.

Chenoa was incredibly attuned to both of us. There were moments when Krishna was sick, and I could see the concern on Chenoa’s face — she knew something wasn’t right. I remember one weekend, when I was crying profusely, fearing Krishna’s time was coming sooner rather than later, Chenoa looked into the dome-shaped bed where Krishna was lying and then back at me, and then rested her head against my forehead. It felt like hours, though it was likely only five minutes, but the comfort she gave me in that moment was immeasurable. Chenoa did the same thing again five days before I had to lay her to rest. She was so attuned that when my anxiety was high, her IBD would flare. It made me cherish her even more, and I had to learn to keep myself calm so she couldn’t feel it. She was my emotional support animal in her own, unique way.

After Krishna passed, Chenoa would want to be under the covers more, headbutt me more, and greet me at the door. When she had been away from me for more than a couple of hours, she would let me hold her, greet me, and stay with me longer than usual — and I cherished those moments, because it was pure love moments . Although I was deeply devastated about losing Krishna — and still am — I was looking forward to time with Chenoa alone, and I thought we might have had a good five more years together. I thought maybe Chenoa needed to have me all to herself for a while because Krishna definitely had some main character energy 😜

The last thing Chenoa endured was her diabetes diagnosis. Thirteen weeks after Krishna passed, she began her own diabetic journey; her diabetic course was short. When I started the medication, I often wondered if I was doing the right thing, because most of the time it seemed she didn’t feel well. But I knew I couldn’t fight for one cat and not the other. There were moments when she had bright energy, and I was finally able to get her to eat consistently, but managing both IBD and diabetes was extremely difficult, requiring multiple medications.

There were a few times she let me put her on my chest, and she stayed there for 10 minutes, vibrating me with her purr. The old Chenoa would’ve given me her signature resting B face as if to say, “Really, mom? I didn’t give you permission or initiate this cuddle!” But this time, she stayed, almost like a gift — a quiet moment she chose to give me. It seems like a lot of the time when I would go check on her, she looked tired, maybe even in pain, and I often wondered if she was trying to tell me that she was tired and wanted to be with her sister, even though I know she loved me.

Two days before I laid her to rest, I asked her what she wanted, because it can be so confusing — she was giving me glimmers of enjoying life, but also a lot of moments where she seemed tired or in pain. The next morning, she gave me two signs: not eating and a UTI. The UTI could possibly have been treated and might have helped her feel better , but considering everything she had endured in her life, with now two chronic illnesses and all she had been through, it didn’t make sense to keep pushing her. I chose peace for her, even though losing her shattered my heart into a million pieces.

Chenoa’s loss seems more unbearable than Krishna’s. Another tremendous, deep loss. Not only do I miss Chenoa because of who she is, but she was also the last living reminder of Krishna. They weren’t born into this life together, but they came home together. They helped me through so much. They were one soul with two distinct personalities, holding me together, and my house doesn’t feel like home anymore — the only home the girls ever knew.

I truly believe all three of us — Krishna, Chenoa, and I — are soulmates. Our lives were intertwined in a way that felt destined, ancient, and deeply meant.

Chenoa completed something in me. She balanced Krishna’s boldness with quiet strength. She was gentle in ways that steadied me — not demanding, but always choosing me in soft, intentional ways that made me feel seen. I am going to miss those chirps and trills, her prancing around the apartment, her chirping up my shoulder to ask to be let under the covers, her headbutts, her putting her nose between my thumb and forefinger, licking my hands, her regal presence, and her beauty — so kissable, with those striking brown cheeks.

One comfort is knowing the sisters, Krishna and Chenoa, are reunited after 107 days apart . I know they are watching over me. And I know our bonds are unbreakable, whether they are on earth or over the Rainbow Bridge.

On the morning of Chenoa’s passing, she was bright; I was able to get her meow and her trill on video. That gave me comfort on that day. I told her I loved her, and she slow-blinked — something she didn’t always do — and I think she understood why I was considering laying her to rest.

Our songs were Have I Told You Lately That I Love You and You Are My Sunshine. They fit our relationship perfectly — the songs capture the love, comfort, and joy she brought into my life.

I love you forever, Chenoa.

My delicate little flower.

My Bunkin’ Bronco.

My Petitité.

My étouffée.

My petite du monde.

My Chenoa Bird.

Madame President.

Chenoey.

My best friend.

Chenoa “I’ll Cut You” Freeland (nickname given by Auntie Trish).

Her Royal Highness (Queen of the World).

My baby girl.

One of the great loves of my life.

Run free, my Chenoa, along with Krishna.

Free from pain, free from meds, free from the stomach aches and struggles your tiny body carried.

May you have soft beds of sunlight to nap in, shoulders to chirp at so you can be invited under the covers, and endless peaceful places to rest your delicate spirit.

Over the Rainbow Bridge — you deserve comfort, warmth, and the quiet joy your tender heart brought to me.

I want to thank Travis Country Veterinary Hospital and Dr. Lauren Buys for their excellent care of my precious girls, Krishna and Chenoa, and for supporting us with such compassion through every stage of their lives.