I first met her in 2001. My ex spouse had left me for the second time and this separation involved several months, so I was living on my own. My coworker approached me and asked me if I wanted a cat.
At the time she went by "Mercedes" and had a bit of a reputation for being loopy and overly energetic. "That cat is crazy," was an oft uttered phrase when she came up as a topic of conversation in the service area. She'd passed through three other owners, including two of my co-workers who just couldn't hang with her...exuberance. I wasn't particularly excited about having a pet at that time either.
But then my coworker explained the situation. She was pregnant. (The coworker, not the cat.) And the man she was pregnant with was abusive to Mercedes. Not just unpleasantly anti-cat or callous. He was downright sadistic. He would smack her around. Put her out on the balcony and dump a pitcher of water on her. Chase her under the bed and reach under it for her, and if Mercedes scratched his arm in her terror of self-preservation, he would pull up the whole mattress up, grab her by her scruff, and toss her into walls. He was never in a million years going clean up the cat box after her. And with my coworker pregnant, she couldn't risk getting toxoplasmosis. Would I please take the cat?
[Edit to add: a number of people have asked me about this relationship since people who abuse animals seldom stop with animals. I'm happy to report that she got out of that situation and is with a great guy now.]
She was an orange tabby. Female tabbies are pretty rare...kind of like male calicos, but she defied the odds. In more ways than one.
At first, I was not thrilled. She shed her white and orange fur all over my new black futon. She scratched up the leather recliners that were on loan to me from a friend. She bolted around the house at all hours meowing like she was in combat with nine or ten invisible rabid wombats. And she was anxious from her abuse. She wouldn't really let me pet her, and if I so much as sneezed she would run out of the room in terror. Skittish beyond functionality. I found food in weird places and the water dish knocked over. And she kept knocking shit off of high places.
I had made a huge mistake saying yes. I was not ready to be responsible for anything, let alone this unholy orange I even asked about seeing if the coworker would help me rehome her.
It was the third or fourth night when I fell asleep in the couch form futon without pulling it out into a bed. I drifted off feeling vaguely sorry for the train wreck my life had become. Long after I was sound asleep, in the deep quiet of the wee morning hours, I felt a tiny body curl up into the small of my back. If I moved, she bolted. If I reached out, she bolted.
But if I held perfectly still–just perfectly, perfectly still–she started to purr.
The next day it was as if nothing had happened. She was gone with my first morning twitch and spent the day caterwauling through the apartment at cheetah speeds. But the next night she jumped up sooner. And the next morning she left later. Four days in, she let me pet her. At first it was a gentle touch, but within a few minutes, she bunted my hand for the first of about a gazillion times.
She was a cat and I was a person, but slowly we came to some kind of detente. She stopped running around late at night. I calmly picked up after her whirlwinds. She never really warmed to being in my lap, but she was always curled up next to me. She learned I would never hurt her, and her jerkiest moments of jerkitude barely got a raised voice, and in return she stopped running out of the room every time I shifted position or sucked in breath to cough. Eventually the tiniest touch would get her purring. I leaned in one morning–something that would have spooked her earlier–and with her eyes barely slitted in trust she extended her nose towards me.
Boop. We bumped noses.
"I found someone who might take her," my coworker said the next day.
"No!" I said. Then after a pause: "No....I think that's okay. I feel like we make each other....less broken."
She was the first pet I ever had that was definitively "mine." She was the first one who picked me to snuggle in a line up. She was the first one to come to me without prompting and the first to make sure I knew it was time for some pets. She was the first pet that went beyond a passably affectionate chore and stole my heart right through my rib cage.
She decided she needed a new name for her new life. Obviously I had nothing to do with such a decision, but Mercedes would simply no longer do. The high energy, bullet dodging, jumping and leaping exploits of Princess Mononoke from the Miyazaki film decided her name almost without my help. I was watching the movie. I looked over. And she nodded in agreement.
It was decided.
Of course as soon as she heard she was a princess, she decided it was time to act like one. And of course that had nothing to do with me spoiling her. Nope. The Mononoke part was mostly remembered as an afterthought as she demanded most of the bed, dinner exactly when, and my loving attention no matter what I was doing.
Jumping onto my computer and lying down on the keyboard while I was writing was a daily occurrence.
She always seemed to know she was orange. She would always sleep on blue things that brought out the orange, and she actually acted sort of unimpressed before by other things that were orange even knocking over cups and such. The oranger something was, the more she hated it, and the bluer it was, the more she wanted to be on it as much as possible. It became a running joke that she would not suffer anything that failed to acknowledge or dared to upstage her Royal Orangosity. Acknowledging how orange she was became sort of a thing, and my friends humored
Her kitten energy wouldn't last forever, but there were bird heads aplenty at the threshold while it did. After she shifted into cat middle age, there were cranky meows when I would come to and fro, turn on lights, get into bed. Anything that disturbed her got me a cantankerous "Meyehhh." But as irascible and crotchety as she got, she always booped my nose, curled up next to me, and started purring.
Seventeen years we kept each other company. Partners came and went. Friendships sparked and died. I quit my job as a manager of restaurants and went back to serving, then quit that job too. I went to school and got a degree. I became a teacher. I started writing in earnest. I started getting paid to write. Homes were moved into and out of. I was asked to leave my family and moved out. Through it all, we were each other's support. No matter what happened, eventually we'd boop noses, curl up next to each other, and she would purr while I scritched her cheeks and pet her back.
The kidney disease made life harder. There was more routine. Longer instruction manuals for whomever watched her when I was out of town. Lots of concern about getting enough water. But she was actually doing quite well for how long she'd had it. That is to say her blood panels looked pretty good when I took her to the vet two weeks ago. But she was not actually doing quite well.
All the water in the world added to her expensive special diet didn't stop the tumor behind her eye. Steroids gave us another couple of weeks, but they just reduced inflammation. Cancer's inexorable march was only postponed.
Or as I like to think of it, she saw that our new president was an anthropomorphic cheeto who was even oranger than she was, and that was simply not okay. "Fuck this shit," she meowed at his orange countenance. "I'm out."
We talked that last day. Not long, for there was some urgency, but for an hour or two. I told her that we found each other broken and we helped each other heal, but also that my scar was always going to ache without her. Cats like to hear these things about how they'll be missed, you understand. I wasn't being maudlin or anything. Purely for her benefit.
But then it was time.
I tucked my breaking heart into my pocket, and held her through her last journey.
"It's okay, baby girl," I said. "It's okay."
The weirdest things totally get to me right now. The quiet. The gaps. The spaces between. I miss the nose boops and falling asleep petting her purring body, but it's the tiny moments of null energy that thunder through my heart.
Shutting off the lights in my room to leave, I thought to myself that I should leave one on for—
Saturday I walked into my room and no one yelled at me. You know....for having the temerity to open the door.
The pressure sensitive cat bed (that I swore I'd never get) sat on my bed (where I swore I would never put it). Her food was uneaten in the bowl next to the door. The thought that I need to fill the water bowl and clean the box turned into a lancing ache.
Getting into bed and not hearing her objecting "Meyahhh" that I'm shifting her sleeping zone.
The quiet is the loudest part.
You were a very good girl, Princess Mononoke. You brought light and joy to half my life. You were my cat.
And you were very, very orange.
I know how it feels. I had a crazy, almost abusively-obsessed-with-me cat who everyone wondered why I kept. But when he got diabetes and we had to put him down due to his complete in ability to accept shots, it was still devastating. I will say that we almost immediately got two new kittens, despite our logical understanding that this did not make sense for our timing, and we love them and they filled the giant hole wonderfully. Don't be afraid to get another. They are all different, but they all have their wonders.ReplyDelete
I cannot tell you how odd it is that I found this today. One week ago we had to let go our old man cat, Grendel just shy of 17 years. After a year of anti-seizure meds, surgery to remove a skin tumor (not all of it gotten as it was too large), new meds cuz the old seizure meds weren't working anymore, he'd had enough. On Monday, Feb. 6th, 2 weeks shy of his 17th birthday, we said goodbye. We had him his entire life, and while I've had to say goodbye to cats before, something here was different. HE was different.ReplyDelete
So I bawled through your entire piece. Thanks for sharing it, thanks for letting me cry through the whole damned thing. They really do get inside your heart, and I'm going to miss our old man forever.
Peace to you, friend...you did a wonderful thing for that orange princess -- there's a special place in the universe for folks like you. <3
So sorry for your loss. God bless you for loving your pet the way you did, and may your many happy memories of The Princess carry you through the days ahead.ReplyDelete
Seventeen years is, at once, a wonderfully long time and not nearly long enough. I'm sorry for your loss.ReplyDelete
My senior tripod kitty passed a few years back. I still see his distinctive hop-walk out of the corners of my eye sometimes.
Their departure leaves unique, cat-shaped holes in our lives and, while new feline friends may come along, the old ones remain forever in our hearts.
Thanks for sharing HRH's story.
You made me cry. You made me remember every cat I've said goodbye to... the orange ones, the black ones, the gray one, the tuxedo, and the crazy calico. You're a writer and I'm a sap. <3ReplyDelete
My mother shared this quote with me when I experienced my first loss; he was the first who was really my own and he went with me as I embarked on adulthood.ReplyDelete
"We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own, live within a fragile circle; easily and often breached. Unable to accept its awful gaps, we would still live no other way. We cherish memory as the only certain immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan."--Irving Townsend
I cried after reading your post because I know just how you feel and share that feeling though we have never met. The power of writing and relating.
Haven't finished reading this post yet. I can't get past the fact that your friend got rid of the cat instead of the sadistic boyfriend.ReplyDelete
That shocked me too. And, she was pregnant. What did she think that the sadistic boyfriend would do with the child?!Delete
I took a cat under these same circumstances, Grace. Boyfriend would hurt her and boss got rid of the cat instead of the boyfriend. Poor Grace was never well, and we couldn't figure out what was wrong with her so she was always feeling bad, and she hated all the other creatures in the house and wouldn't leave the bedroom, but loved to be loved. So we loved her as long as we could until she just got too sick. So sorry to hear of your loss.Delete
So sorry for your loss. They may be small but they fill our lives, and the hole they leave behind is always so much bigger than they were. She was your pet, but you were her lifesaver and home.ReplyDelete
They become a part of us, pets do. And, they never truly leave our hearts.ReplyDelete
This is a beautiful tribute. Thank you.ReplyDelete
Just found this. Thank you. Helped me process my loss of Ancient Orange, whose ashes I am picking up today. People tell me to celebrate the life I had with him, rather than the loss, and I am (hmph) working on it. I hope time has helped with your loss.ReplyDelete
I always enjoy your page, and recently came across your February 13, 2017 memoriam to your late feline companion, "Peak Orangosity". It took me back to a very similar piece I wrote on March 13, 2013. It moves me even today when I revisit it. I'd like to share it with you and I guess the easiest way would be to provide you with a link to my blog where I published it back then. If you choose to read it, the story called "Friends" can be found at: https://mcrayons.wordpress.com/2013/03/24/friends/.ReplyDelete
What a lovely, touching, poignant tribute to your beloved Princess M. Why you chose to interrupt your prose with a dig at Trump, I have no idea, but it was grossly out of place and very distracting. I want to forget he exists, yet hatred for the man seems to consume his opposition’s entire existence. That odd insertion muddies the entire piece and does nothing to serve your sweet friend’s memory. I’m so sorry for your loss. I know how much it hurts even as time passes.ReplyDelete
Beautiful, Chris. Thank you. -elfiReplyDelete