I don't care for cats, unless they live in the barn. Our cats in N. H., all 7 or 8 of them, did just that. They would sneak into the house, with the help of the children, and I didn't mind that, but I hate litter boxes in the house and would never allow the cats to become house cats.
During the time that M-I-L lived with us, so did her long-haired white cat, with a litter box in the house. I hated it, both the fur that was everywhere, and the smell of the litter box. I swore I'd never have another cat. Ever. Amen.
So when we moved back into our old house in the Village, after the failure of our business, I was adamant that neither DB nor I would become involved with the long-haired tiger cat that hung around our door. "Don't talk to her," I'd warn DB, as we struggled to get our things into the house. "Hi there, kitty," he'd say, and dip down to scratch her behind her ears when he thought I wasn't looking. "Look, you rascal," I'd say to the cat winding herself around my ankles as I was trying to take in the groceries, "Stay away! I HATE cats!"
Our neighbor said she was a stray and had lived at least the last 2 1/2 years under his deck during the winter months, and roamed the neighborhood during the warm times. "She's a good chipmunk hunter," he said. He also would leave food under his deck for her, but that's as far as he would go.
So when three times in a row, this cat who wouldn't take no for an answer came down from our empty upstairs in the morning to say goodbye to DB, I was in a dilemma. She obviously had been bunking in our upstairs while the house was empty. DB hunted all around, finally finding how she got into the house, and closed up the entry. He also said that there was no sign of her having used anything in the upstairs as a litter box.
I gave in, took her to the vet to get her rabies shot, with the help of Lydia, and named her Rascal. I figured that any cat with those resources deserved a break, inspite of her long hair.
So she moved in. In the summer she would grab any unwary chipmunk who came into her sights. She stayed outdoors at night during the warm summer nights. She would come in to sit regally in DB's lap in the evening, after her supper, but then would be happy outdoors. In the winter, she slept in the house, but was out during the day. She could always get into the upstairs of the garage if she wanted to be warm and cozy.
She remained an outdoor cat. We compromised during the cold months with a litter box in the garage for her, but she never made a mistake in the house. She adapted to her new life very quickly. The only thorn in my side was her fur, which turned up everywhere.
I did marvel that she never got on the kitchen counters (which I absolutely can't abide), and only once jumped up on the dining room table. That time, she hit the little cloth I had on the table and slid right off, cloth and all, onto the floor. She was quite surprised, a little embarrassed, and never did that again.
She didn't get into our food; she only ate her dry "Nine Lives" stuff. I also don't like to mess with the canned cat food, so she got the dry. She learned to live with my idiosyncrasies. And she learned quickly not to jump into my lap.
If pressed, I had to admit that she was quite a cat. Clean, quiet (except when chasing chipmunks), and very well-behaved. I liked her from a distance, but hated the grey fur everywhere in the house. DB, however, adopted her from the first day he met her. And she was his cat. In the evening, after I went to bed, she would climb into his lap and watch TV with him. I'd hear him crooning to her from the bedroom. "You pay more attention to that darn cat that you do to me," I'd grumble.
Our upstairs neighbors learned to like her, too. They would happily feed her and put her out and in when we went away. Sometimes the lady of the house would sit down here in our apartment when we were off gallavanting and hold Rascal in her lap, and croon to her. And Rascal and I had come to an understanding; I fed her, talked to her, but she didn't try to get into my lap (although, if DB were away overnight, Rascal would sit on the floor in front of me while I was watching TV and meow at me. No dice, I wouldn't pick her up.)
When we came home from St. John a couple weeks ago, DB thought Rascal had lost some weight. She seemed to be off her feed at bit, also, although she sometimes would go without eating much for a couple days, so that wasn't too unusual. She was a hunter, after all. Then I was unable to get her favorite Nine Lives, and had to try a different brand. She balked at that and went on a hunger strike. DB began to get worried, but I felt it was because of the new food.
I don't pick her up, so I hadn't noticed the weight loss. DB made a special trip to another store to get her favorite food. When he put that down, she went over to the dish and sat looking at it. But she didn't eat.
Saturday, we decided enough was enough and we took her to the vet. I figured it was hairballs, or something that would cost us money, but would fix the problem easily. Well, to my chagrin and DB's sorrow, Rascal's kidneys had failed. He said that it is a fairly normal thing for an older cat. We were never sure just how old Rascal was. We had her for 6 years.
The vet said we could stall the inevitable by giving her IV's twice a day, but that there was no guarantee that it would help at all, and that she would only have 2 or 3 months at any rate. That wouldn't even get her into chipmunk weather. We took one look at the IV and realized how uncomfortable it would be for her and might not work at all. So we made the decision to have her put down then.
When a pet dies, it is hard on everybody. But when you have to play God and make the decision yourself, it is even harder. DB and I had a long time to be with her in the vet's office while we waited for the blood work to be completed. We talked about how she first came into our lives. We laughed a little, shared some memories about this remarkable cat, and I was surprised to find tears in my eyes.
Today I took the plastic shower curtain pieces off the chairs in the living room, disposed of her dishes and cleaned up the little rug they had sat on, and vacuumed. I found myself remembering many funny little things about her. Most especially, I remembered how she respected my wishes. You can't often say that about a cat.
But then, Rascal was an extraordinary cat. And I'm grateful that I knew her.
Life usually is good. Thanks be to God for sending us Rascal. Amen
It's gloom and doom out there again. We have had very few sightings of the sun this winter. Most days are dark and overcast and it snows sometime during the day. I've ordered tomato seeds (probably enough for the neighborhood) and plan to order cabbage and cucumbers. I like to grow my own seedlings. It was still light at 5:30 tonight, so perhaps there is hope!
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