Pilgrim, my little cat I rescued from the alley behind my coffeehouse in November of 1995, lived the good life with me for nearly 20 years, romping around my house, eating a tasty diet I customized for her physique; getting massages just for the asking. She used her sharp claws on my children, especially when they were young and moved erratically around her. She hated being cuddled. Despite the lack of joy she brought the kids, they loved her and always drew her in their family portraits. She returned their affection with a welcoming saunter when they walked in the room, and lots of supplicating fur-rubs against their legs.
But, as with all needy creatures in my life, her care fell to me. (With the notable exception of my pregnancies, during which time I successfully convinced John that I could contract toxoplasmosis if I changed the litter, and kill the fetus. He stayed on litter duty during months of nursing too, because I told him that toxoplasmosis could still enter my bloodstream, and the milk supply, and kill the baby. Then there were the months trying to get pregnant. I think I bamboozled my way out of litter duty for a good few years if I add up all the months.)
As she aged, she became a finicky, cranky, feeble slob. Her daily routine eventually required me to: feed her an egg-cup sized dollop of canned food three times a day (she lost all her teeth, and a larger quantity made her sick); comb her (she wouldn’t groom herself at all, so her hair would mat and clump without my salon services, which she hated, and bit and scratched me to prove it); maintain 2 litter boxes (she became litter-proud); keep my home office hotter than 80 degrees year-round so she could hang out in her own private Florida. But the worst was her refusal to walk across the carpet in my presence. She’d get her claws caught in the (extremely low-pile berber) carpet loops, not feel like picking up her paws, and stand there meowing until I detached her stuck claw and carried her around. She’d wander all over the place when I wasn’t around, as evidenced by the empty food bowl and the hair and poop she’d scatter. But she saw me and thought, “Here comes my sweet ride! What a sucker.”
I was sick of caring for her. But I did it out of duty, diminishing fondness, and habit. I found her one year after my mother died, whom I cared for throughout her battles with cancer. I cared for her throughout my kids’ neediest years of life. I cared for her while tending to my my terminally ill father, after which time I was so burned-out on care giving there were days I just wanted to drop her in a snow bank. But if I did, the kids would accuse me of being an incarnation of Cruella Deville, so instead I fantasized about her death. In my fantasies, I’d walk into my hot office and find her dead. I’d explain to the kids that she was old, and just “shut down.” They’d cry. If she wasn’t too stiff, I’d let them kiss her. Then I would bury her in the yard.
Not the back yard, because Seamus would dig her up and toss her around like a frisbee. The bee yard, on the side of the house, fenced off from the dog. I had the spot picked out, under the rhododendron tree. I even contemplated digging the hole for her grave last spring so I wouldn’t be digging in the summer when mosquitos were out or in the winter when the ground was frozen. A better person would feel guilty about these detailed death fantasies. Not me. They kept me going. I was Cruella’s eviler twin.
But now I feel sad and guilty for the thoughts, now that she’s gone, and I can’t talk to her little cat grave when I tend to the hives. Serves me right.
