My Day of Remembering V

Every year at this time, I publish a blog-entry in remembrance of my cats who have died. I prefer not to commemorate them separately on the anniversaries of their deaths but, rather, together, when I recall something about each of them that is indelible in my memory.

Bear-Bear was the first to leave me, nine years ago now, in February of 2014. One of the things I recollect about the BB was his length. He was a long cat, long and lean, his slenderness accentuating his length. Even his posture reinforced that image, as he would often lie on a cat-tree, with his tail or a foreleg hanging over the edge of a platform. I suppose when one has Bear-Bear’s dimensions, one always has a bit extra. What a friendly fellow he was.

 

Tungsten was my first cat, and the second to go away, leaving in March, 2015. The tiny terror taught me much about cats, specifically that they can imagine. This is different than pretending: I often see cats pretending that a fuzzy mouse is a real one; they stalk it, pounce on it, throw it about. But the fuzzy mouse is real. One evening, Tungsten and I left the bedroom. She was on the bed and, in departing, she jumped into the air and suddenly spread all four legs. They were tense, with the claws extended in the paws. But when she landed a second later, her limbs were relaxed, her claws retracted, and she calmly accompanied me to the sitting room. She had imagined prey in front of her, and she attacked it, in her mind. The orange one made me see cats in quite a different colour.

Parker, another ginger, left in early June, 2019. He had, like many cats who had been abandoned and forced to live as a stray, bad teeth. Nine of them had to be removed. By the time of his surgery, he had lived with me for a while, though I don’t recall exactly how long it had been. I was came to collect him at the veterinary hospital. He was brought out in his carrier, his back turned to its door, and unresponsive. I spoke his name, and he turned around, rubbing his face on my fingers through the bars. I realised then that we had become friends. We stayed very good friends, and he is my friend, still.

Raleigh was another stray. This one I brought inside myself. He had been hanging about on the fringes of the feral colony that I help manage at my work-place. He was new, clearly not one of the crowd, and in a bad way. I thought he was an aged cat - the Old Campaigner, I called him. I was determined to capture and neuter him. When he was caught, it was found that he was young and not feral at all, just fearful. He lived with me for less than two years, until May 15th, 2020. I will always remember seeing this sad and lonely feline waiting by himself for the food that was brought every day for the ferals. He had come early, hoping to eat something before the others arrived, when he would be too scared to claim his share. My Peachy.

Cammie, the indomitable. It took a long time for her to become my friend, but when she did, we were very good friends indeed. She had suffered through the abuse in her original home, then through the uncertainty of a new one; her adoption was unsuccessful, to say the least, and she was returned. She had a stroke and went blind. Despite all this, her spirit stayed strong, and she overcame all obstacles. All but one: a second stroke made her life impossible, and she left it behind on the same day Raleigh left his. But Cammie’s spirit remained - and remains - unbroken.

Josie, my Chubs, loved books. I recall her lying across many of them that I had left open on a table or a bed. I don’t know if she read many, but she seemed to prefer books on architectural history. She rarely got up on a table - her girth made jumping unattractive to her, though she surprised me with her agility from time to time - but when she did, it seemed to be when a book was open. The Great White was a literate lady, right up until she died in February of 2021.

Tucker died in December, 2021. He was a very good friend of mine. The Tuxter was the roly poly sausage. There was a lot less roly in his poly latterly, but when he first came to me, he was practically oval-shaped. He reminded me of a fat-cheeked infant and, indeed, I considered him to be the baby of the family, though he was not the youngest. How he would fill a cat-bed! I like to think of him in his blimp-days, happy and content, as he no doubt is now.

Minuet was the latest of my cats to leave me - in August, 2022 - though, alas, she won’t be the last. Her previous owner couldn’t cope any more with Min’s wetting outside the box. Madame, as she came to be nicknamed, was also deaf, wouldn’t groom herself and was allegedly diabetic. It turned out that she was not diabetic, did groom herself and, with the right encouragement, used the litter-box almost without fail from soon after she arrived in the Cosy Apartment. It was true, however, that she was deaf. But I will always remember, after her litter-box had been filled with Cat-Attract litter, her almost proud expression as she sat by the box she had just used. My very-oldster was with me the shortest time of all my cats, except for a few early fosters, but she made quite an impression. Even now.

These are the cats who have gone on head of me. I hope to catch them up one day; we’ll talk over old times, and make new ones. But until then, I will remember them. I will remember my friends.