The Unknown Cat

Callie didn't come to me like a refugee, with nothing to her name. She was a grand dame in a large carrying case, much nicer than any I already had. She had a comfy pad inside with her, already soiled with cat hair as if she had been sitting peacefully in this cage for quite awhile.

The pad and the cage were the only items that seemed even slightly used. Her two food bowls were brand new. The hair brush was still in its package. There were six cans of deluxe Science Diet hairball control food. There was a new litter box and shovel, and a container of cat litter. Whoever was passing this cat along at least cared enough to give her a good start in her new home. Mostly everything was new for her new life. I would have preferred to see some well-worn possessions to give me a clue about who she was.

I would have benefited from more information. Callie's journey to me was through two others, so I never spoke to the original owner. A neighbor I seldom talked to collected Callie from her sister, who had collected her from a friend because the friend planned to put her down. They were moving. Something had happened in their life. Loss of job, or house, or a new husband, or a new baby. The story was vague. The cat was maybe named Callie. Like the game Telephone, when information goes through a line of people, it gets distorted.

Callie, I was told, was at least 9 years old. (The vet would later guess 13 to 15.) She was most certainly deaf and declawed. I had no information on when those catastrophic events happened. I had no information on what she liked to eat, or what a typical day was like for her. No information on any favorite activities. No information.

Callie was a good traveler. She did not seem upset when I took her cage the first time and brought her inside. Our one evening trip to the vet went fine. She made no noise in the car and showed the most curiosity that I had ever seen in her, looking out the window at the passing lights. She was well behaved at the vet. She took her medicine without a fight.

But the three weeks of twice daily antibiotics didn't radically change her behavior. She still ate very little if anything at all, and seldom moved except to go to the litter box. To the end she was a polite lady, never incontinent, leaky, or smelly. You wouldn't know anything was wrong except for her muscles atrophying so she was wobbly on her back legs.

The vet claimed the blood test showed no organ failure, just an infection of some type that would take more money to investigate. And she had a heart murmur. And cataracts.

She had shown some interest in her new home the first couple of weeks, hissing at the other cats, checking out the bathroom, coming into the bedroom at night and jumping on the bed, enthusiastically eating her food with an audible "nom nom nom." But when her appetite faded, she lost all interest in everything except snoozing on a heating pad in a papasan chair in the corner.

The chair was behind me in my home office. Whenever I walked in to work, she greeted me with a single, "moaw." If I turned around in my chair after working at the computer, she said it again. She tolerated petting, but didn't want to be picked up. Whenever I tried putting her in another room, she immediately made her way back to the papasan chair. Then it got to the point where picking her up, even if I put her right back, was so exhausting, she panted for many minutes, or jumped off the chair and pushed herself up against the wall under the chair so I couldn't pick her up again.

On the last day, that's what killed her. I put her on a scratching post perch in another room so she could see out the window, and she jumped down. I picked her up again and put her on my bed, and she jumped down again. The two jumps were too exhausting. She couldn't slow her breathing no matter how wide she opened her mouth, and when I picked her up a third time to comfort her, her head snapped back and she went limp.

Finally, she was relaxed and comfortable in my arms, a sleeping beauty, face serene. No incontinence, or blood. Or smell. She was a polite and tidy lady to the end.

I can't believe she's gone. It was only seven weeks, yet every time I pass the room, I expect to see her in the chair. I expect to hear the "moaw." When I turn around from my computer, she should be there. No other cat in the house has resumed using the chair, even though some of them did before she came.

I should get rid of the chair because it's such an empty throne now, but I think that might make me feel worse. I'd like Callie's ghost to visit me and tell me about her life. I still want to know.