My Day of Remembering VI

Each year, on the 25th day of February, I write about those of my cats who have died. I like to describe a certain quality of each one, letting the readers know something of the cat who was my friend. This time, I want to explain what each taught me.

The first of those friends to go on ahead was Bear-Bear. He died on this day in 2014. Though I had had cats since 2007, his deterioration, due to cancer, was new to me. So too was how much he continued to want to be with me, even while he was sick. The BB and I liked each other very much, and, whether being with me brought him comfort in his adversity, or whether it was just part of his affection for me, I learned that even with their dying breaths, animals will love their people.

Tungsten, my first cat, died on March 25th, 2015. The tiny terror taught me a great deal, but was too much the subject of my inexperience. It was through her that I learned about what not to do, more than what to do. What to feed, how to integrate cats, how to leave them for the day, when to clean litter-boxes… The Orange One was my introduction to the feline world, and when she left me, I had still so much to learn that I regretted the loss of her tutelage as much as anything else of which I was suddenly bereft.

On June 2nd, 2019, Parker (‘Puck’) passed away. He was a fun fellow, the only one of my cats to go outside (on a harness and leash, of course). He taught me that a cat could have a bad temper, and display it when and how a human might. For the most part, his temperament was equable. But when forced to do something he didn’t want to do - such as go back inside after a pleasant excursion in nature - he would grumble and claw the ground. Even when he died, he expressed his disagreement with events; he wanted to stay, and let me know in no uncertain terms. His spirit was undiminished, but his body was crumbling. My lesson in strong will.

Raleigh had been living outside for a time, an insider-cat abandoned or lost. I had to trap him, but had guessed that he was socialised. Indeed, the first time that I sat with him, while he was still confined to my bathroom, he climbed onto my lap. I realised then that he was grateful. Peachy, as I called him sometimes, was thankful to me for giving him a warm refuge and good food. I had not before seen that emotion shown so clearly in a cat. He died on May 15th, 2020.

Cammie also died on May 15th, 2020. She came from an abusive household, and it took the two of us quite a while to trust each other. But we became very good friends. What I learned from her was tenacity and perseverance. She had a stroke in May of 2019 and, though all the other effects were temporary, the blindness she suffered was permanent. Yet she adapted. She learned to walk through the apartment where we then lived, to find open windows by smell, to find the litter-box by memory (even if it meant continually bumping her head on furniture), and she learned to use a set of stairs to climb to and from the bed. She reclaimed her life through her fortitude. Alas, her life thereafter was short, and she died following another stroke.

Josie was an ordinary cat, it seemed. There was nothing very remarkable about her. She was steady and calm, unexcitable. I often compared her to the housekeeper who ran the household, letting the homeowner get on with his work. She taught me that a cat can give an air to a home, in her case, steadiness and dependability. Our home seemed all in order when I saw my Chubs about the place. The Great White left me on 17th February, 2021.

Tucker was my roly poly, my little goof in a sausage-shaped package. He instructed me in treating diabetes. He showed me how to manage it and how it can easily get out of one’s control, sometimes through one’s inaction or ignorance, sometimes on its own. The Tuxter was my testing ground, yet he never lost his sense of fun, and never stopped being my friend. He was the Catfather, and it was to him that I would go to learn about diabetes. He died on December 4th, 2021.

It was on August 20th, 2022, that Minuet died. She was nineteen when she came to live with me. A supposed-diabetic (she was not), who kept wetting outside of her box (we solved that) and deaf (yes, she was), she had lived sixteen years with her person. She was with me for seven months. Yet as bewildering and frightening as her changed circumstances must have been to her, she adapted. Madame, as she was titled, showed me affection and regard, and, in times of adversity, she looked to me for support. I know, thanks to Min, that a cat is never too old to adapt and enjoy life.

And Renn, my big boy. From the start, he was timid, a pacifist. Large and strong, he preferred to hide than confront. Appearances were deceiving with the Rennster. He came to me because he bit someone who was trimming his bum hair, yet he was never so untoward with me. A gentleman who looked to the peace and quiet in life, rather than the ruckus, he had a scientist’s soul, and hidden depths. Things were not what they seemed, he told me often enough. He died on July 2nd, 2024.

These are the cats I have known, and have learned from; cats who were my friends, and my teachers. I will remember them, and I will remember the lessons they taught me.