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.

Callie Died - My Fault Again

Callie's not in the chair behind me this afternoon as I work, the first time in seven weeks. She died just an hour ago. As usual, I cannot leave well enough alone.

Okay, she barely moved, barely ate, but at least she was alive. If I picked her up, it upset her and she'd breathe heavy, so better to not pick her up, right?

No, I had to today. I wanted to show her the snow out the window. I wanted to change her blankets and give her fresh ones. I put her down on the cat climber near the window and she didn't like it. She wanted back in her corner, but when I brought her there, she was panting so hard, she went under the chair. Then she was panting very hard and biting the chair leg. It reminded me of when Merly was biting on the blanket when she had her final seizures. I watched her for a few minutes, praying it would subside. She acted like she needed to throw up a hairball, so I picked her up again and patted her like I was trying to burp a baby. She threw her head back in a jerk, and was suddenly totally still. Oh no!

I killed her by picking her up. If I had just let her stay in her chair, maybe she'd still be alive. I saw her sitting in the middle of the room earlier today. She had gotten out of the chair for something. I can't believe she went that fast. I must have caused her to have a heart attack or stroke because I moved her.

We had a record snowfall last night. It hasn't snowed this much here since 1917 or something. Our street has not been cleared. We can't get to my mother-in-law's anytime soon. There is no where else to bury her. Animal Control said to put her in the garage to freeze until the weather broke, or just put her out in the trash.

Poor, lovely, gentle, calico cat. I don't know anything about you. I don't know how old you were. The vet thought maybe 13. I don't know if you were deaf all your life. I don't know if you were ever happy. Someone declawed you along the way. I don't think you were too happy here, despite the heating pad I gave you and the real tuna and real turkey you wouldn't eat. Sometimes you ate moist treats if I put them in front of you, one at a time.

The first week you were here, you walked around a little. You hissed at the other cats. You would meet my husband when he woke up and sit in the bathroom with him. Whenever I came into your room, you spoke to me. But you never got out of the chair. I know you missed the place you were used to, but I don't know what happened there. They lost their job. They gave up their house and moved into an apartment. They were going to put you down but gave you away instead. A couple of times you came into our bedroom at night.

Then you got sick and wouldn't eat. The vet said you had an infection and we gave you antibiotics twice a day for two weeks. You ate a little, but I guess not enough. Then I picked you up and upset you so much, you stroked out and died, or something.

I'm so sorry. I wanted to love you and give you a nice life.