In the beginning, was Nicole, and Nicole was without a Cat. That this was so is almost impossible to conceive, now. But it was. Thus, when finally we moved to an apartment that allowed pets, we sought a cat for her at the local Humane Society shelter.
In the lowest tier, in a cage by herself, was a beautiful, 3-year-old Calico with a strong voice (though not so strong as the Rex across the room). Unlike the other cats, she was willing to interact with me. After a few minutes, I drew Nicole's attention to her. Immediately, as with every other cat, Nicole became the center of attention. But that was OK. The objective was to obtain A Cat For Nicole. A brief time later, we decided Tabby would come home with us. During the adoption process, we learned apartment-dwellers couldn't adopt without confirmation that the apartment allowed pets. Naturally, the apartment office was closed for the evening. So we had to leave her.
That really bothered me. I'd found A Cat For Nicole and didn't want to lose her. So much did it bother me, that I took the next day off and went back. It was a near-run thing. I walked into the room, right through a family that was discussing Tabby, removed her from the cage and carried her back to the desk. She responded by clawing her way to my shoulder, shedding all over me, and yelling in my ear. I was so proud and happy -- I'd saved Nicole's cat for her.
We got home, and Tabby inspected the premises. It felt distinctly like an interview, and I wasn't giving it. "Litterbox in here? -- OK." "And meals are how often? -- Uh huh." "Nice view, though." She settled-in quickly, and soon began to inform us of our shortcomings. She sneezed a lot, and soon went to the Vet for a course of antibiotics that did little good. We concluded she had allergies, and just put up with the sneezing fits (I once counted 22 consecutive sneezes), and the enormous quantity of mucous (she once wrapped a strand 3/4 of the circumference of her head, and was frequently dizzy after a fit) that led to any early nickname "Snotty-Cat." She also had an unfortunate, though infrequent, habit of urinating outside her box. But she was beautiful, and would always interact with us, was amazingly affectionate when not chastising, and she was our cat. Which was one of the weird things about her -- Nicole is Cat People, but Tabby always paid at least as much attention to me, as to her.
After a while, we moved. And we decided that Tabby needed a companion, because we were working long hours. That was how Cairo became Nicole's Cat. And shortly after that, we acquired Sani & Piper. There are stories -- like the time Tabby visited me in the shower, and fell-in; or the time she escaped the apartment and the first we knew was a neighbor informing us of the "beautiful, but very scared looking, cat crouched against the door;" the fly-catching lessons she gave the other cats; her unerring ability to walk across a person in the most-painful way possible; the months-long argument about midnight feedings with its consequent SuperSoakers, yelling-matches (from both sides), door head-butting, and chases through the apartment (I lost that argument, and thus rarely slept through the night for 13 years); the Campaign to Switch from Canned to Hard Food; or recuperation from general-anesthesia that left her so hilariously "drunk" she couldn't sit upright, and furious about it. Somehow, she became my cat. Nicole says it's because I'm the one who rescued her. I like to think that. But sometimes I think it was just Tabby's contrarian-nature -- she decided that she wouldn't bond with the Cat Person, and I was just the only other alternative. Mostly, I don't worry about it. She was my cat, and she was never other than affectionate and demanding.
Back in mid-June, she had a rough-patch. I knew then, that I should enjoy her company as much as possible and prepare for the inevitable. Last week, she stopped eating again. We went back to the Vet (Fowlerville Veterinary Clinic, still can't say enough good things about them) on Thursday. Blood-work still indicated a possible kidney problem (kidneys must be 75% nonfunctional before the test definitively shows a kidney problem). Urinalysis showed no urinary-tract infection, but she'd just started her last course of Zeniquin, so it wouldn't necessarily. Back in June, we treated this same set of symptoms with subcutaneous fluid and antibiotics. She was already well-into the antibiotics, so we gave her subcutaneous fluid. Then we took her home, along with an IV bag so we could continue the sub-q fluids ourselves.
In June, she responded within a few hours. Friday afternoon, she still wasn't eating. She'd spent the morning on her heated pad. Early afternoon, she started to follow me around, wanting to snuggle. So I sat and held her and thought and tried not to cry. It became heart-breakingly obvious she wasn't going to get better. Things would be downhill from here. I knew she wouldn't make it through the weekend, and the Vet's closed on Sunday. So either I let my cat starve herself for 2 or 3 more days, or I euthanize her before Sunday. Dad had just been talking about how a beloved dog had "one last good day" before making the Last Ride. When it was Sani's turn, I'd counseled Nicole about how hard it would be to live with him for days, knowing he had an appointment. On Friday, she reminded me of that conversation. It seemed to me that Friday was still a good day, but Saturday might not be for her, and certainly wouldn't be for me. So I called the Vet to find out if there was anything left in the bag o' miracles. There wasn't. So I made an appointment for late in the afternoon, and then quit worrying about it.
Tabby's always, even after she became blind, firmly held the conviction that she should be allowed outside. We, of course, forbade it because she was totally unequipped to survive outside. So I did the best thing I could think of, that afternoon . . .
. . . I helped her escape.
We listened to birds, like the Tree Sparrow that sang to us from a walnut tree. We smelled, mouths and whiskers and ears open to savor them all. We chased bugs. We walked on grass, and taunted the dog from outside the fence.
In the lowest tier, in a cage by herself, was a beautiful, 3-year-old Calico with a strong voice (though not so strong as the Rex across the room). Unlike the other cats, she was willing to interact with me. After a few minutes, I drew Nicole's attention to her. Immediately, as with every other cat, Nicole became the center of attention. But that was OK. The objective was to obtain A Cat For Nicole. A brief time later, we decided Tabby would come home with us. During the adoption process, we learned apartment-dwellers couldn't adopt without confirmation that the apartment allowed pets. Naturally, the apartment office was closed for the evening. So we had to leave her.
That really bothered me. I'd found A Cat For Nicole and didn't want to lose her. So much did it bother me, that I took the next day off and went back. It was a near-run thing. I walked into the room, right through a family that was discussing Tabby, removed her from the cage and carried her back to the desk. She responded by clawing her way to my shoulder, shedding all over me, and yelling in my ear. I was so proud and happy -- I'd saved Nicole's cat for her.
We got home, and Tabby inspected the premises. It felt distinctly like an interview, and I wasn't giving it. "Litterbox in here? -- OK." "And meals are how often? -- Uh huh." "Nice view, though." She settled-in quickly, and soon began to inform us of our shortcomings. She sneezed a lot, and soon went to the Vet for a course of antibiotics that did little good. We concluded she had allergies, and just put up with the sneezing fits (I once counted 22 consecutive sneezes), and the enormous quantity of mucous (she once wrapped a strand 3/4 of the circumference of her head, and was frequently dizzy after a fit) that led to any early nickname "Snotty-Cat." She also had an unfortunate, though infrequent, habit of urinating outside her box. But she was beautiful, and would always interact with us, was amazingly affectionate when not chastising, and she was our cat. Which was one of the weird things about her -- Nicole is Cat People, but Tabby always paid at least as much attention to me, as to her.
After a while, we moved. And we decided that Tabby needed a companion, because we were working long hours. That was how Cairo became Nicole's Cat. And shortly after that, we acquired Sani & Piper. There are stories -- like the time Tabby visited me in the shower, and fell-in; or the time she escaped the apartment and the first we knew was a neighbor informing us of the "beautiful, but very scared looking, cat crouched against the door;" the fly-catching lessons she gave the other cats; her unerring ability to walk across a person in the most-painful way possible; the months-long argument about midnight feedings with its consequent SuperSoakers, yelling-matches (from both sides), door head-butting, and chases through the apartment (I lost that argument, and thus rarely slept through the night for 13 years); the Campaign to Switch from Canned to Hard Food; or recuperation from general-anesthesia that left her so hilariously "drunk" she couldn't sit upright, and furious about it. Somehow, she became my cat. Nicole says it's because I'm the one who rescued her. I like to think that. But sometimes I think it was just Tabby's contrarian-nature -- she decided that she wouldn't bond with the Cat Person, and I was just the only other alternative. Mostly, I don't worry about it. She was my cat, and she was never other than affectionate and demanding.
Back in mid-June, she had a rough-patch. I knew then, that I should enjoy her company as much as possible and prepare for the inevitable. Last week, she stopped eating again. We went back to the Vet (Fowlerville Veterinary Clinic, still can't say enough good things about them) on Thursday. Blood-work still indicated a possible kidney problem (kidneys must be 75% nonfunctional before the test definitively shows a kidney problem). Urinalysis showed no urinary-tract infection, but she'd just started her last course of Zeniquin, so it wouldn't necessarily. Back in June, we treated this same set of symptoms with subcutaneous fluid and antibiotics. She was already well-into the antibiotics, so we gave her subcutaneous fluid. Then we took her home, along with an IV bag so we could continue the sub-q fluids ourselves.
In June, she responded within a few hours. Friday afternoon, she still wasn't eating. She'd spent the morning on her heated pad. Early afternoon, she started to follow me around, wanting to snuggle. So I sat and held her and thought and tried not to cry. It became heart-breakingly obvious she wasn't going to get better. Things would be downhill from here. I knew she wouldn't make it through the weekend, and the Vet's closed on Sunday. So either I let my cat starve herself for 2 or 3 more days, or I euthanize her before Sunday. Dad had just been talking about how a beloved dog had "one last good day" before making the Last Ride. When it was Sani's turn, I'd counseled Nicole about how hard it would be to live with him for days, knowing he had an appointment. On Friday, she reminded me of that conversation. It seemed to me that Friday was still a good day, but Saturday might not be for her, and certainly wouldn't be for me. So I called the Vet to find out if there was anything left in the bag o' miracles. There wasn't. So I made an appointment for late in the afternoon, and then quit worrying about it.
Tabby's always, even after she became blind, firmly held the conviction that she should be allowed outside. We, of course, forbade it because she was totally unequipped to survive outside. So I did the best thing I could think of, that afternoon . . .
. . . I helped her escape.
We listened to birds, like the Tree Sparrow that sang to us from a walnut tree. We smelled, mouths and whiskers and ears open to savor them all. We chased bugs. We walked on grass, and taunted the dog from outside the fence.
We learned that gravel is a good place to rest tired bones on a warm day.
We lounged, lazing in the shade of the porch. Listening to birds and bugs and feeling the breeze. It was a good rest, with much contented tail-flipping, after the Great Exploration. After a while, she rediscovered the door and, when I opened it, she went back inside. It was very important to me that she decided when we were done.
After so many years, there are rituals. One of ours was "Follow Me in Front." This involves the morning dishing of cat food in the kitchen, me carrying the food to the stairs, calling Tabby, and her following the food upstairs to the bathroom by racing ahead of me. Once the food arrives, Tabby eats and I shower. It was a part of every day. Certainly, it should be part of a Good Day. I hoped, if an act performed in certain expectation of a negative outcome can be called hope, that she would eat. That her Great Adventure had stimulated her appetites, and she would eat and once again recover. She didn't eat. I had to cajole her up the stairs. But, as she always did, she talked to me while I bathed. Cats frequently respond vocally to me, when I meow at them. Tabby, alone, would converse with me when I spoke English.
We tell people we don't watch television. Mostly, that's true. But, with the amount of time Nicole & I spend away from home, it's important to spend an hour-or-so in the evenings just sitting together. This became another ritual in the last years and, I think, one of Tabby's favorites. We would sit on the sofa, usually with the television running, and Tabby would sit on my lap, Ember would sprawl between us, Sani would lie across the back of the sofa at my end or hers, and India would eventually find a place to lie-down. So Tabby and I went and sat in front of the TV and watched whatever was on PBS for a few hours, until Nicole got home. And it was good. I had time to thank her, and to tell her how much I would miss her, and that I was really, really sorry I couldn't fix it this time. After a while, I stopped crying.
Nicole has a book. It has pictures and words about her beloved Cairo, and fearless Sani, and will maybe even have something about Tabby. On her computer, the wallpaper is a picture of her & Sani, asleep on the couch. I realized that, while I have many pictures of Tabby, I had none of Tabby and I. When Nicole got home, I handed her the camera. It's good that the meaning of this is pretty obvious, because I couldn't speak my request. So there is a photo. You won't see it here. It's mine.
In the end, we went to the Vet. And I stroked her while they gave her a shot. And she died. I don't believe in ghosts. I doubt the existence of an afterlife. But as we were leaving, I "saw"/"felt"/whatever Tabby hop down from the steel table and walk out the door with us. I remember being gladdened that she leapt with none of the reticence imposed by age or blindness, but as she would have left the cage in which I found her. I remember being grateful that she waited for us to leave, and left with us. She didn't follow us. She had places to go. And that's the end of her story.
After so many years, there are rituals. One of ours was "Follow Me in Front." This involves the morning dishing of cat food in the kitchen, me carrying the food to the stairs, calling Tabby, and her following the food upstairs to the bathroom by racing ahead of me. Once the food arrives, Tabby eats and I shower. It was a part of every day. Certainly, it should be part of a Good Day. I hoped, if an act performed in certain expectation of a negative outcome can be called hope, that she would eat. That her Great Adventure had stimulated her appetites, and she would eat and once again recover. She didn't eat. I had to cajole her up the stairs. But, as she always did, she talked to me while I bathed. Cats frequently respond vocally to me, when I meow at them. Tabby, alone, would converse with me when I spoke English.
We tell people we don't watch television. Mostly, that's true. But, with the amount of time Nicole & I spend away from home, it's important to spend an hour-or-so in the evenings just sitting together. This became another ritual in the last years and, I think, one of Tabby's favorites. We would sit on the sofa, usually with the television running, and Tabby would sit on my lap, Ember would sprawl between us, Sani would lie across the back of the sofa at my end or hers, and India would eventually find a place to lie-down. So Tabby and I went and sat in front of the TV and watched whatever was on PBS for a few hours, until Nicole got home. And it was good. I had time to thank her, and to tell her how much I would miss her, and that I was really, really sorry I couldn't fix it this time. After a while, I stopped crying.
Nicole has a book. It has pictures and words about her beloved Cairo, and fearless Sani, and will maybe even have something about Tabby. On her computer, the wallpaper is a picture of her & Sani, asleep on the couch. I realized that, while I have many pictures of Tabby, I had none of Tabby and I. When Nicole got home, I handed her the camera. It's good that the meaning of this is pretty obvious, because I couldn't speak my request. So there is a photo. You won't see it here. It's mine.
In the end, we went to the Vet. And I stroked her while they gave her a shot. And she died. I don't believe in ghosts. I doubt the existence of an afterlife. But as we were leaving, I "saw"/"felt"/whatever Tabby hop down from the steel table and walk out the door with us. I remember being gladdened that she leapt with none of the reticence imposed by age or blindness, but as she would have left the cage in which I found her. I remember being grateful that she waited for us to leave, and left with us. She didn't follow us. She had places to go. And that's the end of her story.
It's been 2 weeks and more since Tabby's Last Day. Some would wonder why it took so long to publish this. Well, more than a few major things have happened in the interim. Some aren't my story to tell, others would be impolitic to publish, and the rest are just boring. Regardless, I've been busy.
I doubt that's the whole story, though. Finishing this entry, I realized it's unlikely I'll be remembering her with such intensity again. In a way, it's the final good-bye. And I really didn't want to say it.
She was snotty, and dippy, and a poor blind cat, and a crazy old lady; she woke me nightly and fired me daily, and if cats can love she loved me. Is it any wonder that I didn't want to let her go?