Helga’s Heartlines: A Journal
Saturday, July 3, 1999


I affectionately refer to him as 'Zachary the Magnificent'. He, in character, deigns to indulge me. My young niece first named him so, some years ago while practicing her grade school pronunciations. Out of the mouths of babes - the title has stuck with him ever since. He's my beloved big guy - part sweetie-pie, part rapscallion - a woolly bully, fat fur-ball - a charcoal-gray, silver-tipped, domestic long hair feline with black mask and boots. Poised and imperturbable, he looks at the world and his owner through enigmatic amber eyes.

Zachary is a cat with an attitude. He hasn't got a pedigree, but he thinks he has. He's a senior citizen but he thinks he's not. He's been neutered but he doesn't know it, or act like it. He's been declawed but he sharpens and uses his imaginary nails. Zachary doesn't walk - he swaggers. He doesn't sit - he poses, with his paws crossed. He's supposed to stay indoors, but he invariably escapes outside to patrol his territory. He takes on intruders and terrorizes them. His daily diet is ready-made gourmet, but he prefers embellishments of fresh-caught, tender, wild, succulents.

I'm learning a lot from my cat. A few of my acquaintances could learn a lot from him, too.
For instance:

He's proud. He never grovels.
When something bothers him he's vocal about it. He doesn't whine and sulk.
He is never jealous. It's beneath him. If you can't be bothered with him, he won't be bothered with you.
He has a big heart. He never holds a grudge.
He'll come when you call him, as long as you let him think it's his idea.
He can handle a compliment.
He's cool under pressure.
He's tolerant. He hates kids and dogs but he doesn't hurt them.
He's not afraid to show he cares. He'll bring you presents. He'll stomp on your chest. He'll stare at you and slowly lower his eyelids if you croon to him.
He's not afraid to take risks.

Oops. Almost forgot to mention - this puss is lovable and loyal, above all - a boon companion.

Zachary picked me as his owner. There I was at the Humane Society looking for the purr-fect pet, preferably fluffy, adorable and female, when I spotted him. I noted him for his complete indifference to the situation. He was put-off, I could see, and not about to participate in competing for my attentions. This intrigued me. Though matted, dirty, and scruffy, I could see he had real possibilities. He was something along the lines of the exotic Himalayan I was looking for. Once he knew he had piqued my interest, that was that. Forget the cute blond kitten in the cage across the way. He told me so, loud and clear - He was most insistent. I had to take him home just to keep peace in the place.

Before I could live with the filthy fellow I had to give him a bath. If you know anything about cats you know this is a desperate thing to do. One risks life and limb, unless you're in a rubber suit. Well, believe it or not, this is how we bonded! This is when he displayed his tolerance and coolness under pressure. Boy, was he vocal, but remarkably, except for the caterwauling, it's as far as he went. He called me every name under the sun. Maybe, he figured, this insufferable situation was still preferable to the Humane Society.

In the beginning he was a feisty little hellion - Must have been going through the 'terrible twos' at the time.... I'd want to cuddle with him, but I'd have to catch him, first. He was always flying about my condo like a whirling dervish. He'd only settle down and snuggle with me when I was fast asleep. He was playful, mischievous, affectionate, and a lot of fun.

A decade has gone by. Zachary is not as young as he used to be. But he still amazes me. One day a month ago I let him out on the second-story deck, and forgot about him for a while. I accidentally locked him out. He did not want to wait to be remembered. So, when I finally did, and went to look, there was no sign of him - or his corpse. Where could he go without stairs, and an all-wooden deck underneath? Panicked, I dashed out the front door and almost tripped over him, waiting, staring inscrutably. I think I detect a bit of a limp ever since, but he's not telling.

If so, he doesn't let it slow him down.... Last night, I took the dog to the park, a considerable hike of several blocks that includes a busy intersection. In the dark a small mammal caught up with us, and motored along at a discreet distance. I'd recognize my cat anywhere.... He gave me palpitations, a few anxious moments, but I should have known better. Of course he knows to look both ways before he crosses the street. He made a run for it when the time was right.

In honor of this latest escapade, and because I'm not sure how many lives he may have left, I think I'd better write this record of him - this love letter - now. Zachary, keep on keeping on.... You're one of a kind. You're absolutely irreplaceable.

*

Post Script:

July 3, 2003. A remarkable coincidence that the day and the month should turn out to be the same as when I wrote this.... My precious pet and beloved companion of many wonderful years passed away, this evening.
At the end, it was a gentle, poignant, parting between us.

He was about 16 years old, that's 120 in people years.
He almost got hold of a chipmunk the other day.
He'd gradually slowed in the last few years but never stopped, not until struck down suddenly by thrombosis.


~ Helga Marion Ross ~

Copyright 2002