(Another cat sympathy-note): You know my compulsion to say the traumatizingly inappropriate. I was thinking all about kitties and their demise, and the thought of my brother-in-law's summer experience came to mind. I struggled, scratched and bit myself, and nixed: "Well, at least Dan didn't run over him in the driveway."
I received an e-mail one last-summer day from Clint titled "Demise of Scraggy".
It was brief, and sad. "He died in my arms."
Yikes, I thought. That's absolutely horrible. But Dozer did too, amidst my uncertainty of doing the right thing for him; so we all have "stuff" happen. (But heck, that's so cat ~ to live to be 15 and go out having your owner feel guilty.)
Dash's cat (also a "Ralph", I believe) was just a purry fatboy who would wander up and down their street on an annual rotation, hanging at each house and claiming them as his owners, and "long-lost-travail-interference" his excuse for absence, until the steak tartare and bedspread seating ran out. This ruse was discovered after fretful years by several of his Altadena owners. (More like handle-ees, as in "handlers" and "handle-ees".) (I'll see if I can find out some of his other names from Dash ~ an interesting study in human pet-perception.)
So I sent my sister Barbara, a cat magnet, some of our stories and asked her if she wanted to tell a story. Yappi-ness seems to run in my family. :o)
She sent this:
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Subject: Penni's cat
Losing cats is terrible. Over the years we have lost several. One like
Paul's Dozer. He was Ralph, because it sounded like that's what he said
when he meowed. He was huge, black, with long fur, painted white toes,
a white bib, green eyes, and long, long white whiskers that curled up
like handlebars. He was definitly spectacular. The laidbackest cat
there ever was, rode on the hood of the car the block and a half to
school to pick me up once. Died, like Dozer, of a mysterious ailment.
He was our next to favorite cat. Our favorite one was Penelope. She
was a blue point Siamese, personality plus, very crosseyed, very people
oriented, could carry her around on her back like a baby, and she
imitated the telephone when it rang, just to let you know it was
ringing. She just disappeared, we think she was kidnapped but don't
know for sure. Those are the worst kind, not knowing. Then there's the
one we lost this summer. She ran under the car when it was going up the
driveway, so eager to be there to greet us when we got home. The only
thing good you can say about it is that she was l5 and it was quick.
But each time we lost one, there have always been others still there to
absorb some of the hurt. It's always a good thing to have more than
one. Everyone's advice to get a new one is the best advice there is.
It's the only way to fill the hole.
One good story about the one that lived to be l9. Her name was
Sabrina, although we called her Beaner half the time. She was a short
haired, brindle, with black whiskers, and a perfect harlequin face,
divided down her nose and mouth (even inside her mouth), and she had a
golden circle around the front of her neck with a white diamond in the
center, so we also called her Necklace Girl. She was gone once for a
week. We lived across the street from a place called the Lincoln Street
school then. An entire block, which was actually a K-6th grade school
when Clint was a kid. Red brick and cement. Beautiful old building
that was not earthquake safe, so it was no longer used as a school. It
became other local government things. It has about a three foot crawl
space under it which has a three foot square opening square in front of
it. Beaner loved that place. She would sit just outside the opening
and watch for bats when the sun set. They came out of that hole and she
would catch them. We also called her The Bat Cat. She would bring them
home and I would find them on the back door mat in the morning. She
also climbed the sycamore tree right next to the building to get up on
the roof in the winter so she could curl up next to the heating unit.
We don't know exactly what happened to her, but she was apparently under
the school all the time she was gone. We had been over there to call at
the hole, but she was either caught or too weak to get to the opening.
Her hip was broken, but we don't think she was hit by a car because she
always watched for cars. You never saw anything like it. She would go
across the street to the school, but she always stopped to look both
ways before crossing the street, and when she came back the same thing.
It was a real trip watching her do that, like some little kid. Well, I
came home one day after we'd given up finding her. She heard the
Volkswagon Bus drive up, and came running (limping actually) across the
school lawn, yelling, fit to beat the band, and I went running along the
side of the house toward her. When she got to the curb she stopped and
did her usual look both ways before crossing and then came across the
street. Her hip mended and she lived to be l9, dying in her sleep one
night.
We have four cats now. Two sisters who hate each other, one a short
haired tiger and the other a long haired tiger with white toes, white
bib, and white handlebar whiskers. Then we have a male who is the twin
of the long haired tiger, who lived in our backyard for about six months
before we started feeding him (Clint missed Ralph), he whistles when he
purrs. The newest one is another Siamese. You should always have more
than one, but four (once five) is over doing it just a little. Follow
everyone's advice. It doesn't even have to be a kitten. Barbara
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