For Cat Lovers Only

It was inevitable that I would one day write a piece about cats. Cats have been a large part of my life. I grew up in a feline loving family, and over the years cats have been a great source of affection, amusement, companionship, and always a great non combative topic of conversation. They are wonderful animals, proud, intelligent, independent, noble, curious and hilarious. And beautiful. The most elegant and athletic of creatures. They are capable of communicating and having recipracol relationships with humans, when and if they deem us worthy.

I got my first cat when I was two. He was a black and white tom, and I named him Boykitty. I was quite literal, as children are at that age. In those days it was uncommon to have family pets neutered or spayed, so Boykitty lived up to his name and wandered the streets looking for a fight or a fuck. For three or four years he would come home after his adventures, and I loved him with my whole tiny heart. And then he didn’t. I don’t remember being terribly sad, I just assumed he was having an adventurous life, and had moved on. And, hopefully, he did.

It was around then that we had a sweet cat named Brownie in our family. Dad was very attached to Brownie, and it was mutual. She followed him everywhere. One day my dad sat us down and told us the sad news. Brownie had been run over following him across the street. This was the first, and perhaps the only time I saw my dad openly weep. He was wretched with feelings of guilt and grief. Dad communicated deeply with his pets. He was an introverted and sensitive man. I think his relationships with his pets and farm animals were a great source of comfort for him. Dad and his wife Marion had a sweet hobby farm where they lived for 40 years, with an assortment of animals, including many house and barn cats. His favourite was Tiger, a barn cat turned spoiled house cat. When they couldn’t manage the farm anymore, they moved to a condo and Dad grew old with Tanya, a longhaired calico. His life had been reduced to mostly sitting on the couch, with Tanya on his lap, or perched by his shoulder at all times. They were devoted to each other.

When I was ten, my girl Putsina died, and Mom gifted me with Sammy, a beauty of a seal point Siamese. He was a quintessential Siamese, intelligent, very communicative, and loyal. When I moved out from Mom’s house at seventeen, I dragged poor Sammy with me. We lived in various communal homes along with other cats, dogs, a couple of parrots, some objectionable boyfriends, housemates and endless parties. Throughout this chaotic time, he was by my side, my only constant. He always kept his dignity and never complained or judged. In my early twenties, I started travelling, and Sammy went back to live with, and be spoiled by, my mother, until he died on her bed at age seventeen.

I don’t remember every cat that came into our lives in those early California days. My two sisters and I were each allowed one cat, and there were a few litters born in our home over the years, once I remember, in my bed. Our mother took advantage of this opportunity to teach us some basic biology and sex education.

My mother was crazy about cats. She probably didn’t have pets as a child, growing up during the depression in a hardscrabble home. When she was in her early twenties she became fast friends with an older woman, Phylliss, who would change her life, and become her surrogate mother, and our grandmother. Phylliss was an educated, strong, outspoken, self confident, progressive woman. Everything my mother wasn’t. She took my confused and lost mother under her wing, and they formed a life long and profound bond. During those early years, Phylliss, an animal lover, gave Mom an adult female seal point Siamese. Mom cherished her cat Ruwana, and was amazed at the love that they shared. Phylliss had opened yet another door for a fulfilling life for mom, bringing her into the incredibly rewarding role of cat companion.

During the second half of her life, Mom lived in an old Victorian house in central Toronto which backed onto a laneway which was home to many stray cats. Mom rescued and rehabbed many of these cats over the years, sometimes taking months to gain their trust. When she died, there were seven kitty corpses buried in her tiny back yard. My Sammy being the first. For years, every summer, Mom planted a basil plant on top of dear Sammy.

“I don’t like love as a command, as a search. It must come to you, like a hungry cat at the door.”

Charles Bukowski, On Cats

And then there was Lulu. In May of 2007 I was working a sixth season at a remote wilderness resort in Clayoquot Sound. My accommodation was a rustic cabin in the forest, which was overrun with mice. I couldn’t face another summer of mice running across my head and shitting on my pillow, so I decided to get a cat. I saw an add in our local paper for a ten month old female seal point Siamese. $100. As soon as I held her, I knew she was my girl. So, I took her back to my cabin in the forest. She hated it, and persistently broke out of the cabin, where there were numerous predators lurking. She turned out to be a lousy hunter and mice deterrant. I too was miserable, so for both of our sakes, I quit my job and we went home to the lake. Perfect solution. Two months after I got her, Lulu gave birth to five black kittens. Neither of us were very excited by this, but she was a devoted young mother. We ended up keeping the only boy, Jaxon, who is still with me.

Lulu formed a close bond with my partner Jimmy. She loved riding on his shoulder, went running to him when he came home, and always slept on his side of the bed. When Lulu was six, Jimmy died suddenly. We were bereft. Lulu stopped playing, grooming, making eye contact. She barely ate. When I most need a cuddle, she rejected me. I took her to the vet, and they confirmed that there was no physiological problems, she was grieving her man. We both slowly came back to loving life, and then Lulu and I bonded hard. It’s impossible to describe how much she was to me. She had a huge personality, was intelligent, fearless, inquisitive, and she had a huge voice. She ran to meet my car in the driveway, followed me everywhere, inspected every bag I brought into the house, sat on the counter watching and tasting when I cooked and had to be involved with every activity. I held her in my arms when we danced wildly in the kitchen and she slept by my side on Jimmy’s pillow. We had long conversations, she spoke in full sentences. She loved being with me, but was not much of a cuddler. My friends and family were beleaguered with Lulu stories, and, for the most part generously listened, with a little eye rolling. She made me laugh every day.

Lulu died three years ago at sixteen. I did not mourn her death hard, she was sick and ready to go. But I miss her and think about her a lot. When I use the word love, between cats and their people, I believe it is true. Of course cats can love us. When Jaxon lies on my chest, looks me in the eye, and reaches his paw to gently touch my face, when Lulu put all her trust in Jimmy as she fell asleep on his shoulder, when Tanya wouldn’t leave my Dad as he lived his last years, when Scruffy finally accepted my mothers affection, that is, by my definition, love.

I now live with Jaxon, we are the last two standing. He doesn’t have the huge personality his mother had, but he is a good guy. He has a lovely thick coat and is a wonderful companion and cuddler. We get along just fine, we chat occasionally. He is eighteen. When he dies, I will be a catless cat lady. I plan on remaining that way to be free to travel. We’ll see how that goes.