But What About the Cat?

Dandy, Rosie, Honeybun, Snowflake, Buddy, Lily, Sugarplum, Pippin- Don’t quote me

Last night I saw the movie, “A Quiet Place, Day One.” Like half of the patrons exiting the theater, I was commenting on one thing — the cat. It was an hour and forty minutes of suspense and the coup de grâce was putting a fluffy, black and white cat in a supporting role.

No spoilers here but it put me in a contemplative state for the ride home, ending in an immediate need to write. And hug my cat.

The edge-of-your-seat concern for the oscar-worthy animal reminded me of a comment from a sweet man several months ago.

He was responding to a story I had written about the grief process and everything that went into wrapping up my mother’s life. His focus was similar to the movie goer’s last night —

I’m so sorry for your loss, but…may I ask what happened to her cats?

Best comment to date.

I get it, maybe we cat people are all alike, our hearts bleed if we see a precious fur-baby suffering, — and by suffering I mean, they had to wait an extra hour for their dinner or the sun moved and now they aren’t in the warm spot.

Every memory has a cat

My mom hand-raised several kittens, adopted many cats, and once agreed to care for a cat after his leg-surgery. He was fluffy, white, and dragged his heavy cast behind him like Jacob Marley.

During my first nine years of life we had one cat. Once my parents finished relocating and settled in for the long haul, the multiplication began.

The first addition was Velvet and she was mine. Unfortunately when we added two more over the next year, her anxiety went into overdrive and her fur fell out. She was given to a nice family while my heart broke.

By the end of junior high we had six cats and when I left for college my parents housed eight.

And two enormous litter boxes that were like peeing in the sand dunes of Michigan.

While I loved all nineteen cats that came in and out of my life, it became clear that I had a type…

I’ll take your most traumatized cat, please

My first remembrance of choosing a cat was around age ten. We already had two but Mom wanted to make it an even three. We went to some lady’s home to look at the cat she was hoping to adopt.

It was not the one we left with.

I felt nothing for the social lap-cat that Mom spent the hour connecting with. I was drawn to reassuring the frightened orange tabby that was bolting from every noise and hiding behind anything that wouldn’t move. That was the one I wanted.

Who else would bother with a traumatised, scaredy cat?

Punkin was a stunning, sixteen pounder and when I eventually earned his trust, he was at my side day and night.

The next underdog I picked was from a local shelter. Pepper looked like a black panther, he was a twenty pound, solid, sable beauty. He had been abused so you wouldn’t pet him beyond his shoulders unless you were donating blood.

I spent years working with him and eventually he was comfortable with long sweeping strokes — carefully done, from behind. Reaching across him was the kiss of death.

My desire to help the untouchables continued when I moved out on my own. After unpacking, I promptly went in search of the one thing that was missing from my first home.

I found him at Kitty City — a haven of felines from entryway to vaulted ceiling, bay window to furnace.

Can you imagine a day where you can wander aimlessly from room to room where hundreds of cats are leisurely draped over every piece of furniture and cat structure, anxiously waiting for you to meet, play, and give them a loving home?

It was a glorious day, but ended with the torture of only takingone.

I picked Colby because he was the most gorgeous, massive silver tabby I’d ever seen and because he had to live behind bars. The attendants told me he was another abuse victim and was fighting-mad all the time. Sold.

I have no idea how they got him into his carrier.

Gracie was my next charity case and was adopted within a month of Colby’s passing — I’ll get to that later. I’d married a non-cat-lover (sacrilege!) and I promised to take a break from having a cat when grumpy pants died.

I had no reason to be in the Petsmart that day — but we all know I had a very good reason — nothing softens the grief process like holding a cat.

I had barely crossed the threshold of the automatic entryway when I locked eyes with the white cat with domino-like spots in the top kennel.

The adoptees were placed near the doors for the exact reason they accomplished. She looked deep into my soul and I swear she said,

“Hi. This is happening.”

I was told she’d likely been attacked by a dog. One of her back legs had healed incorrectly, giving her an obvious limp.

Sounds perfect.

The hardest goodbyes (get your hanky)

At age sixteen I left home to work at a summer camp — leaving my sidekick, Punkin, for eight weeks. After four weeks of my absence, he had a mental breakdown. Mom had to call me at camp.

My ego has always contended that he died of a broken heart.

Pepper lived with us for ten years and shortly after he lost his sight, he gave up the ghost. I was grateful when he moved on, watching a once spry and tenacious cat walk into walls was agony.

Colby, the beautiful — but grumpy — silver tabby, was so detached that I couldn’t tell he was unwell. During the year he lived with me he’d sleep on the very edge of my bed — that was as connected as he got. It wasn’t until he made a god-awful howl under my bed that I scooped him up and scurried him to the vet. He had clogged pipes and while helping them to clear, he passed away. He was only four.

Gut punch guilt.

Gracie, named to offset her unfortunate limp, let me know she needed help by jumping up on my bed and peeing in the middle of it. It was brilliant, she definitely had my attention.

She was with me for thirteen years and the first cat who passed away peacefully on her terms with me by her side.

The current four-legged count

Six years ago the non-cat lover moved out which meant more cats could move in. When my oldest son asked for a cat for his birthday it was the perfect excuse.

I took him and his little brother to the local shelter where he fell in love with a lanky orange tabby who was five months old. The kitten stood up on his hind legs and looked longingly out of the window display — an equally cute all-black companion by his side. I asked the staff why he was allowed to share the display case while all the other cats were segregated.

Only litter-mates could be enclosed together. Oh lord help me.

Both the boys got a cat that day; my bleeding heart would not separate brothers.

Finn and Piper got my two unused baby names.

Gracie passed when her brothers were three. They looked around the house for her for several days. While not the best of friends (she was an old lady and they were obnoxious teenagers) they had all grown used to each other.

And then there were two. Until Mom passed.

The last piece of Mom

When Mom passed she left behind two cats because that was the total number her 55+ housing community allowed; otherwise I would have had half a dozen to parcel out.

Mom’s last will and testament was clear — her cats were to be euthanized if suitable homes could not be found.

Over my dead body, Mom.

During the month Mom was in the hospital I visited her cats daily; I found the two sleeping together, once. It felt appropriate and more successful to separate them.

Her eight year old grey tabby, Pippa, went to a family who knew that any cat from my mother’s home had been well cared for, was up-to-date on shots and declawed. While a controversial topic, it was not one Mom ever compromised on.

The sixteen year old, tuxedo cat, Lacy, went with me. It would have been hard to place a cat of Lacy’s age, but her additional handicap made her placement a no-brainer — Lacy is completely deaf.

There isn’t an interaction with Lacy that doesn’t make me think of my mom. When I’m playing with her or giving her medication I imagine Mom is smiling down on me. When I give random treats throughout the day because she looked at me a little too pathetically, I imagine Mom is rolling her eyes.

When Lacy leaves this world, it will be a very sad day. Though still going strong at 17.5, she is the last living piece of my mother.

Yes, I still have her face when I look in the mirror, and the grandchildren she loved, but let’s be real, her cats topped us all.