When my father died in 1987, I inherited
his two cats,
Charlie and Chrissy. He named them after characters in the TV show
Charlie’s Angels. I had them for a long time. About 1996,
Chrissy died of stomach or liver problems one day while I was
working. I buried her in the yard where I lived at the time. I marked
it with some bricks. The veterinarian had wanted to take her up to a
hospital in Santa Fe for very expensive treatments and follow-up
drugs, but I didn’t have that kind of money. The other cat,
Charlie, lived much longer. After I married my second wife, I took
Charlie with me and established him in my wife’s house. I hated
to move and leave Chrissy there. She was dead and buried, but still I
grieved for her. Charlie lived with us for many years.
In 2000, on my fiftieth birthday, as I
thought I was
waking up, I saw my father to the left of the end of the bed, in the
small corner formed by the closet and the wall. He looked as I
remembered him, but he was many years dead. I knew that, but he was
right there, big as life. As first, I just stared. Then I said, “Hey
Dad, what have you been up to?” Such a dumb thing to say. He
said nothing, but he smirked, the smirk that was a big part of his
personality, and appeared to look past me for a moment. Then he
turned and walked to my right, along the bottom edge of the bed. As I
turned my head to follow him, I seemed to open my eyes. I was still
staring at the small corner where I’d seen him, but he wasn’t
there or anywhere. The closet door was partly open, exactly as it had
been a moment before - same exact clothes hanging there. It was a
dream? It sure had been detailed. It was light already, so I got out
of bed. I looked where I’d seen my dad look, and there, under
the bed, was my cat Charlie, my dad’s cat. I hadn’t
thought about my dad any time recently, and I hadn’t known the
cat was there. I couldn’t imagine why I would suddenly have a
dream like that. It freaked me out for days.
Charlie woke up and followed me to the
kitchen for
breakfast. The dream, if such it was, stayed with me. Charlie was
fine, and I never had another dream about my father. All was well for
a few years more, until one evening I realized I hadn’t seen
Charlie for hours. I went looking and found him in the small bathroom
in our bedroom. He was acting strange. There was a nasty-looking
liquid coming from his eyes. I wet some tissue and wiped it away.
That’s when I realized his eyes were gone.
I was shocked. Can a cat’s eyes dissolve?
Was
there some disease that destroyed eyeballs? He was a cuddly sort,
always on my lap and usually on the bed with me at night, so I would
have noticed if he had been sick. I wrapped him in a towel and sat
with him on my lap for hours. It was late in the evening, and I
didn’t know what to do. He seemed OK, except for the eyes.
He settled
down, and slept. At one point he woke up. I petted him. He purred. He
stood straight up and stretched his back in a high arc. I was so
happy. He lay back down and went gently to sleep as I petted him, but
he never moved again. I buried him in the yard. Some time passed but
I grieved for Charlie, and never stopped wondering about his eyes. A
couple of years later, at the house of my wife’s friends and
neighbors two houses away, I was sitting with the husband who was
complaining about cats shitting on his backyard lawn. He had a pellet
gun and said he shot any cat he saw in his yard. He bragged about
being away to shoot them right in the eyes at night because of the
way cats’ eyes glow from reflected light. It took me a minute
to make the connection. Charlie had been dead awhile. I walked home
by myself. I never mentioned it to my wife because the couple were
close friends of hers, and we saw each other often. I thought about
calling the police, but I didn’t really have any evidence.
One day, a beautiful calico cat showed up
in my
backyard, nursing a litter of little fur balls. They kept to
themselves around the corner of the house. The kittens grew up and
wandered off. I was happy the momma cat stayed. I had her spayed. The
veterinary clinic said to keep her inside for a while. I had to keep
her in the pet carrier, as she wasn’t used to being inside.
She’d gotten used to me and the yard. When I finally let her
out, she seemed fine. She stayed nearby. A few days later I found her
dead in my wife’s vegetable garden, a victim of bad surgery?
I was sad, but sometime later, another
pregnant cat
showed up. This time I put food out every day for her and then for
her kittens when they got old enough. I planned to offer the kittens
for adoption when they were ready, after at least three or four
months. My wife did not want cats living in the yard anymore. It was
fun to watch them develop. They mostly hung out on the patio outside
the sliding glass doors. The mother cat kept them in line, and I
watched as she taught them all to hunt. She would bring an injured
mouse to them, and let them learn how to catch it, and that it was
food.
I don’t know why people think they can
remove
kittens from their mother right away. You really can’t. Some
people wait for eight weeks, but veterinarians say that is not nearly
enough. They are at greater risk for developmental, social, and
health issues. I could see that. At first, of course, the kittens had
to feed from her teats, but then she showed them the dry food I had
been putting out for her. After that, she began their training for
the hunt, how to pee and shit away from their food and sleeping area,
and eventual independence. It was beautiful to watch.
One day, while the kittens were still very
young, one
of them had managed to climb on top of a six-foot-tall fence I’d
recently completed. There were pickets on both sides, but there was
room enough, apparently, for one of the cats to get inside. I had to
undo the screws I’d used to fasten one picket, and he tumbled
right out, unharmed. However I found another kitten dead in the pile
of wood I still had alongside the fence. Two pieces were construction
timbers, very wide, long, and heavy, and I had set them on bricks,
upright against the fence, rather than lay them flat, where they
might warp. The kittens must have been playing on the boards and
knocked them over. One got squashed, and I hadn’t noticed it
missing. This kitten I’d just saved ran back to his mother,
meowing loudly, not interested in having me comfort him.
I didn’t plan to keep these cats long. I
wanted
to have them adopted, but my wife kept insisting I get rid of all the
cats. I reluctantly agreed, and got a trap. I put the food in one
night, and sure enough, mother and kittens were in it the next
morning, except for one. I decided I was going to keep him. He was a
striped orange cat, identical to my dad’s cat, so I named him
Charlie II, but just called him Charlie.
Fast forward one year. Charlie II had
learned to come
inside for food, and sit on my lap. One fine spring day, another
pregnant cat showed up, and I saw Charlie II playing with her. He was
neutered, so I knew he wasn’t the father, but they sure liked
each other. My wife let me know this time I couldn’t keep the
kittens around for long, so after they were weaned, I trapped them
and sadly took them to animal control. In the drop-off room, they got
loose before I could get them in a cage. They were very lively. They
were jumping almost to the ceiling and bouncing all over the place.
It was really sad, because, at the time, they would likely be
euthanized. But not the mother.
She
was very young herself. I read once that cats can have litters at six
months of age. She was very small and thin, so I made the assumption
she was about a year old, possibly less. I fed both cats outside for
a while, but eventually I moved the food indoors, slowly moving it
further away from the door, until they were happy coming in to eat
together. I never got around to calling her anything but Girl, for
another four years. The oddest thing of all was that she had the same
colors as my dad’s female cat, with nearly the same pattern. I
had both of my dad’s cats back!
Three years later, I was divorced. My wife
got the
house; I got to keep my pension. And I got to keep both cats. She
said they gave her the evil eye. When they came in from outside,
they’d give her a wide berth. She was scared of them, and
jealous of the affection I gave them. Once I had them settled in at
my rental house, I noticed one day that they were scared of my broom,
something I’d never threatened them with. I was immediately
suspicious of my ex, since she used to put me down for opening those
sliding doors for the cats to go in and out. She laughed at me for
doing that. And she thought it was stupid that I got down on the
floor to play with them. That seemed like odd behavior to me. She had
never had pets, and had actually pushed Girl, the new cat, away, when
it tried to get onto her lap. Charlie was always on my lap, so Girl
thought that was a good idea too. After my wife had freaked out and
pushed it off of her legs, Girl never would get on my lap, ever, no
matter how much I coaxed, or if I picked her up and put her on my
lap. She would just freak out and jump down immediately, so I stopped
trying.
Meanwhile I had a friend, a workplace
acquaintance who
met me every Friday for lunch. We had some things in common, like a
love for reading, especially Sci Fi, and Japanese graphic novels
called manga. We also loved Frito Pies in the cafeteria, but
sometimes we’d go for the long walks to a restaurant for Greek
gyros or for Chinese fast food. She told me about a manga she liked
that had been made into a TV series, available on DVDs. In fact, she
lent me a set of those videos to watch at home. There was a huge
flying demon cat in the story called Kilala. I could only watch them
when my wife wasn’t at home, or was out of town, as she
controlled the TV I’d bought for her, and hated both Sci Fi and
animation.
After my divorce, I renamed my female cat
as Kilala.
It fit. She was still a bit wild, and never allowed herself to be
picked up. In fact, getting her into a pet carrier when I moved
resulted in bloody, itchy cuts all over my arms. I took her straight
to a vet clinic to be chipped.
Over the years my work buddy and I had
swapped many
books and even Marvel comics. I found her fascinating herself, but
while I had been married, I knew better than to touch forbidden fruit
like that. Actually, after the divorce, when I’d moved into a
rental house, I invited her to come see the new place, and although
she said she would, she never did. Once, we had a conversation about
the new Marvel movie that was opening, Silver Surfer. We both said we
were going to see it. So, I asked if we could go there together, or
if I could meet her at a theater, but she appeared shocked that I had
even asked her, and responded that it was inappropriate. I didn’t
continue the conversation, as I was walking her back to her office,
and we’d arrived. I never understood the “inappropriate”
remark, since I was divorced. But she was young, and I was not. She
stopped being available for lunch. ‘Nuff said, as Marvel’s
Stan Lee used to say.
So, my cats became my whole family. Charlie
and Kilala
had a pet door, so they would come and go as they liked, after we got
settled in the new place. Actually, the first time I let Kilala out,
she
disappeared! I was frantic for a while, feeling like it was my fault
due to moving her to a new, unfamiliar
neighborhood. I imagined her trying to return to my ex-wife’s
house, getting eaten by coyotes, or because of the wide river, using
the Rio Grande bridge where she might get hit by a car. It was a long
way to go. I didn’t expect to see her again. Still, I called
and whistled for her every day. But after nearly three weeks, I
hadn’t quite given up, so I put flyers all over the
neighborhood, and in stores, asking people to call me, even if they
had just seen her. I also put some up all over the 83-house compound
where I live. A day or two after posting the flyers in my compound,
just after I’d gotten into bed, she just showed up at the back
door, which was in my bedroom. As I opened the door, Charlie jumped
on her. I thought they’d lick each other and rub together, but,
no, he mounted her immediately. That, I thought, was inappropriate at
that moment, so I pulled him off so I could feed her. She never
disappeared again, and the two cats were inseparable.
In fact, they always came in at night to
sleep with
me, even after they’d eaten. They would follow me around the
house, whether I was in the living room reading or watching movies,
or at my desk in the bedroom. Sometimes they’d split the
difference and one would be in each place, so they were never far
away. Charlie was an excellent hunter, just like his predecessor, and
brought rodents and the occasional bird home to eat. There were
literally thousands of birds in the area, with the river nearby,
irrigation ditches flowing throughout the neighborhood, and the Rio
Grande Nature Center sanctuary a mile and a half away. I know cats
can be a problem for bird populations, but surrounded by many
thousands of birds, I wasn’t worried my two neutered cats could
eat a significant number of them. I felt my cats needed to stalk and
pounce, or chase a little fresh animal flesh once in a while to stay
healthy.
It’s funny to me that people around here
post
things about cats about how dangerous cats are to entire populations
of wildlife, but they aren’t concerned about the large
population of roadrunners around here. Some think the cats might eat
the roadrunners, but those birds are fierce, and can kill cats in
self-defense. In fact, roadrunners can out-strike, kill and eat
rattlesnakes. They eat small birds too, raid other birds’ nests
for eggs and often expropriate the nests. So, roadrunners, roaming
freely in large numbers are as much of threat to small birds as any
cat. Roadrunners, by the way, grow up to two feet long and run 26
miles an hour! And, although coyotes run between 35 and 43 miles an
hour, roadrunners can fly short distances. The cartoons had it
backwards.
I ramble a lot. Sorry. This was about my
cats. I lost
Charlie. He disappeared one day - never came in to eat dinner, and
the food was still in his bowl the next morning. I contacted Animal
Control, but they hadn’t been in the neighborhood, and more to
the point hadn’t been called to pick up any dead or sick cats
in the entire area where I live. I examined all the nearly identical
cats they had, but he was chipped, and they hadn’t scanned him.
So, I wondered about him a lot. I put up dozens of posters, about
Charlie, this time. Someone told me they’d seen a cat like that
in the next neighborhood over, so I walked or ran there every day for
six months looking for him. He had always come when I called or
whistled for him, but he was gone. I hoped he was taken in.
A year later, after I’d given up all hope
of him
coming home, I happened to mention his loss to the leader of a hike I
was on. Kilala had never stopped watching for Charlie to come home,
and often
sat for long hours, obviously depressed. She rarely moved, and
appeared to have lost her raison
d'etre. I had decided to find her a male companion, pimp for her. The
hike leader told me there was a cat living on the golf course in
Bernalillo. The clubhouse had been feeding it for a long time, but
wanted to adopt it out. The cat would sometimes turn and bite if you
touched its back. (Liability issues.) I hoped it was a male. When I
checked it out, I was told it was a female, named Snowflake, for the
white fur. I agreed to adopt it anyway, but when I went to be
approved for the cat by its friends at the golf course, they had just
found out it was male. Anyway, the clubhouse members approved of me,
and said they would bring the cat over. He also had a small house
they had built for him, with added insulation to protect him from the
cold winter nights. When they came, they brought him, his house, food
and water bowls, and a large supply of food. And, they would visit to
check on him, bring treats, and often take me to dinner.
Well, as much as I had hoped otherwise,
this cat had
only been around humans all his life, and didn’t know what to
do around other cats, how to chase, play-fight, hunt, or screw. He’s
a disappointment, but eventually the two cats learned to get along,
and both slept on my bed. He mostly sleeps, never uses his house, and
rarely goes outside at all. I kept the name Snowflake because he
responded to it. Kilala likes him, but he just doesn’t respond
much to her. He finally let her lick him a little bit, and I’ve
sometimes seen him lick her back, but that’s the extent of it.
Two years later, I was sure I’d seen
Charlie
near the Post Office and the Senior Center 2 ½ miles away. The
size and markings looked identical. I was in my car, returning from
the post office, when I spotted it behind the fence at the back of
the Senior Center. I stopped the car, and called his name. He jumped
up, and began walking towards me, but stopped, sitting back down with
his legs crossed, acting like he had always acted. Unfortunately, I
was in the car for one thing, and for another, it was a different car
from the car he would have remembered me coming home in. He had
always come to greet me when I drove up, and often slept under the
car for the shade it provided. However, I was blocking the street,
and I had a truck come up behind me. I moved, drove around the block,
but he was gone. I went back often, calling his name, and even asked
inside the senior center if they were feeding him, but they knew
nothing. I never found it. I had seen a collar with a tag around his
neck, so I assume he is someone’s cat now, if that was him. I
don’t know how he got a license without someone scanning his
chip, but it could have fallen out. Of course, maybe it wasn’t
him.
I took Kilala to the veterinary clinic this
past
October 13th. She had been itching a lot. No
sign of fleas
or ticks, but she had been biting herself and tearing out her fur,
which alarmed me. The vet found her skin irritated, likely by some
tiny parasite, so he applied a soothing lotion to her, gave her
something to calm her down, and also re-upped her rabies shot and
whatever else I hadn’t kept up with. He gave me a liquid
(selemectin plus sarolaner) to
apply to the back of her
neck to kill whatever was bothering her, possibly biting lice. It
seemed to work. Three months later I finished with her medication,
but she started to bite herself a bit. However, she stopped after a
few days as I pondered getting more of the liquid drops. She
recovered nicely.
But not long after, I noticed she was not
grooming
herself anymore. She was also sleeping way more, and lethargic. Some
matted fur appeared on her flank. She seemed OK, but then she stopped
eating as much as she had. In fact, she seemed less and less
interested in her food every day.
As I petted her I noticed how bony she was becoming. She hadn’t
been eating much for some
time it seemed. I tried giving her milk in small amounts, as I had
occasionally given her some as a treat, although I know it’s
not good for cats. She had always loved it, but now wouldn’t
touch it. I bought tuna fish, the only other thing she had really
loved, but she passed on that too. She was also retching without
bringing anything up, sometimes wheezing, and her purring had a funny
discordant sound to it. Worried again, on February 9th,
I
took her in for testing. $425 dollars later, I knew she didn’t
have liver or kidney problems, but only a stomach infection. She had
been given antibiotics for that. But she was very weak, and the vet
cautioned me she might only have months to live. I also had a cream
to apply to her ear once daily to stimulate her appetite. Even though
I washed my fingers thoroughly, I was petting her, and it seemed to
work on me! I have eaten more in the past week than usual (it could
also be from stress over Kilala) and suddenly the pants and shirt I
had been wearing just a week ago wouldn’t fit - I couldn’t
button the pants closed. That’s some fast weight gain!
She didn’t eat that first day after I
brought
her home, or the next, but then she popped up right away one morning
as I walked into the kitchen area. She was hungry, and more
energetic. She was drinking water again too. I had high hopes she
might recover, given how strong, healthy, and active she had always
been, but after a week, she stopped eating much, that I saw, but I
did see her drinking. She wouldn’t go outside at all - it was
cold and snowing a lot. She slept all day, but moved from spot to
spot around the house, including the bathroom, which was odd. It
looked like she was going to die after all, and soon. I spent more
time with her, petting her for long periods of time. She didn’t
object, I put her on my lap too, and for the first time ever, she
didn’t object. Last night, she moved from where she had been
hiding behind the toilet, and flopped down right in the doorway to
the bathroom. I kept checking on her, but not only was she not going
anywhere, but at one point, one of her back legs twitched as though
she was trying to get up but couldn’t.
I had her on my lap earlier, and had petted
her a long
time, and she’d been wondering around the house some more,
stopping at her favorite spots - back of the bed, bath mat, front
door, in front of the fireplace, and other random spots. When she
ended up in the bathroom, I left her alone. But now, this was it. I
felt she was dying and soon. I scooped her up gently and sat down in
the comfy living room chair, put the TV on, and petted her for two
hours straight. She was breathing slowly, and responsive. Not
purring. Her head was draped across my arm and at one point she
appeared to be choking so I adjusted my wrist to her chest in case
she had been unintentionally pressing her throat against my wrist.
She settled down, and I kept petting her. She fell asleep. As I
watched the TV, I kept an eye on her chest. For a time, it was
moving, but then I couldn’t tell. She still felt warm, but I
stopped and got up. She was dead and already stiff. I tried talking
to her to say my final goodbyes – for myself, too late for her
– but I could barely speak.
I
put her stiff body back on the chair while I fed the Snowflake, who
wasn’t even curious about Kilala. I can’t write any more.
