I never liked cats growing up. I was a big fan of all things Snow White; the birds and bunnies and stumbling upon their cat-ravaged carcasses was enough for me to raise my tiny fist to the sky and curse all feline-kind.
Then came Poobah, the tiny kitten held in the hands of a neighborhood boy, who picked her from a litter dropped at our animal-friendly apartment complex. “I got you this kitten” he said proudly and what could I do but thank him and welcome her to her new home? Poobah turned out to be the perfect ambassador for her species. Not only was she black and white like Sonny the Wonder Dog but growing up under his care, she grew up more like a dog than cat. How can you not love a cat who heels and comes when she’s called?Once the cat door was open, there was no closing it again and I’ve had cats pretty much ever since. Some remarkable, some more average, but all claiming a certain spot deep in my heart.
After Poobah (who carried her kittens into my newborn daughter’s crib because that was where babies slept) there was her son Damian (whose personality made him just too wonderful to give away), Koosbain and Docky (named by my then two-year-old who put her own interpretation on ‘kitty’).
There was the Siamese-mix Katsu, who just a few months after howling for “RAAAAALLLLLPH” at the back door, gave birth to a litter that included the handsome Thunder and the remarkably charming Nadia, whose own litter some years later included the irresistibly charming Mickey.
Elma was the daughter of a feral cat who delivered her kittens to the woman who’d been leaving out food. Said woman got the word out that she was looking for homes and having just lost Mickey, I brought Elma home. She spent the first three days hiding under our stove. Odds are she’d never seen dogs before and never was too crazy about them over the course of her life. But she loved her humans and we loved her back.
Here’s how it works. You have no cats, then you have one then maybe two and then that’s the number of vacancies you have when they’re gone. At least that’s how it’s been here. And sometimes, for one reason or another, you make room for one more. That’s how we wound up with Lucy.
A cat mother and her kittens had been abandoned by humans that had moved out and on. So we divvied them up and I took the tiny white runt and named him Spike. Within hours we were already in love with the little guy who spent his first night nuzzled into the neck of his new man. But within days, it was clear that he was in trouble and not even the vet could save him.
So there I was with Nadia, Elma and a vacancy. Turns out that the new home was not working out for one of Spike’s sisters and so… well, you can guess.
Like Spike and every other white cat I’ve ever had, Lucy was all white but for a black spot on her head. Multiple black spots on a kitten will stay but a single black spot will fade away entirely over the first few months. (Is it a wives’ tale or is it true that cats born solid white are deaf?) While she looked like her brother, she was not as charming or even pleasant. But she needed a home and we’d moved her in and there was no going back.
Lucy didn’t care much for the dogs or Elma or Nadia, who weren’t what you’d call close either. As long as the food bowls were far enough apart, hissing and swiping was at a minimum. They each had their favorite spots (Lucy split her time between the outdoors and my daughter’s room), each got plenty of lap time and all was well enough.
It was after her girl left for college that Lucy started seeking me out, opting to join me (and the dogs) at night. But unlike the dogs who were happy to curl up next to or on the bed, that wasn’t enough for Lucy.
I’d turn out the light, my head would hit the pillow and within minutes, I’d feel the landing of four little paws and there would be Lucy, standing on my shoulder looking down at me. Then she’d tiptoe over next to me and paw at the blankets til I’d lift them up to make a dark tunnel. She’d climb in and turn around to face me, her body tucked up against mine. But that still wasn’t enough. All cozy and warm, it was time for the icing on the cake and if I didn’t figure that out by reading her mind, she’d reach out her paw and pet my face, softly at first then with more pressure and –are those your tiny claws?- until I caved and rubbed her little head until one or both of us fell asleep.
For as much as it was annoying when I was too tired to move, mostly I was grateful. Cats are known for being aloof, detached and so independent that when they give you any attention, affection and a sense that you’re communicating, it’s just such an honor.
In Lucy’s last days, I made sure she was tucked in next to me at night, petting her before she had to ask. I thanked her for sharing her life with us. And I promised her a future of carefree cat fun and a reunion with her little brother. It helps me now, thinking of the two of them together again; tiny Spike and his feisty sister.
It’s been suggested by someone else that lives here that we just have one cat for a while. Elphie is totally endearing, watching TV with her man, chasing invisible dust bunnies, even soaking up the sun on the window seat. And it’s not that any cat could ever replace Lucy or Elma, Nadia, Mickey or any of them. But we’ve got this vacancy now and I have a feeling that word’s getting around out there in catworld.
Don’t tell anyone, but I’m leaving the lights on... in honor and in memory of the late, great Lucy. I think she'd want it that way.
