Alive In Our Hearts
November 20, 2003

Some literary 19th Century malcontent once railed against what he called "the mob of female scribblers." He was probably talking about women who write about their cats. As women and cats have become something of a cultural cliché—from wacky old ladies with houses full of strays to so-called spinsters whose cats are their surrogate partners—the notion of a woman rhapsodising about her cat in print is considered cloying, precious, and a contemptible waste of ink. With the world in chaos and the ongoing debacle in Iraq perpetrated by politicians who don't seem to have ever head of Vietnam, why waste one's thoughts on a lowly cat?

But cats, like any pet, are our link to the natural world, the profound cycle of life and death. You just never think about it until you lose one.

There's an unspoken contract when you take a cat into your home: most likely the cat will precede you into the Great Beyond. What you get is companionship, occasional exasperation, and in-house entertainment. You also get to participate in the wonder of an entire life cycle, from exuberant kittyhood through the stately and elegant (at least they think so) middle years, and into serene old age. But sooner or later, you're going to have to say goodbye. That's the deal.

Our tortoiseshell, Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, the darling of Open Studio, is 18 and still going strong. Her joints are a bit arthritic, and it takes her a little longer than it used to to propel herself up onto the furniture, but she still has her old joie de vivre. Zoe, our grey and black tabby, was the cat nobody ever saw. If strangers approached—trick-or-treaters, Open Studio visitors, UPS drivers—she was out the cat door and over the back fence at the first chime of the doorbell. Zoe had four white feet, a motif that turned up on many of the animals in Art Boy's paintings in the 12 years we had her, which was the evidence I would always cite when trying to convince disbelievers that, yes, we did have another cat.

But Zoe got a little lump on her face. Even if it were in an operable place, we would never subject her to chemo or debilitating medication. All we could do was make her as comfortable as possible until the time came to let her go.

Zoe was never a sentimentalist. When the frisky kittens in the adjoining cage at the pet shop were tumbling adorably over each other to get noticed, Zoe was stretched out in her cage, viewing the world through narrowed eyes. I tapped on the glass in front of her cage and her only response was to narrow her eyes even more. I tapped again and again until a small white paw shot out to meet my finger; if not for the glass, I'd have lost a fingerprint.

We bonded.

I never could break her of the habit of biting (or clawing) the hand that pet her, which was usually mine. But it was always in play. Her response to any real threat was to run upstairs under my desk, or under Art Boy's legs. Yet as dubious as she was about other people and animals, she loved the outside world. You'd need a spatula to get her off my lap in the cold winter, but in the long days and nights of summer, we never saw her except when she came in to eat. And then it was just a token visit, communicating in brief syllables ("Meep." "Ay-ay-ay." "Ne?"), before trotting off again on her tiptoes. It was always understood she had somewhere important to be. Zoe's on a mission, we'd joke, and nobody knows what it is.

One of the conditions of growing older is you find yourself spending more and more time at memorials for friends and family members. It's part of the life cycle, celebrated (because what else can you do?) by the recent Dia de Los Muertos rituals. The ones we've lost will always be alive in our hearts.

Still, it hurts to lose a pet who's become so much a part of your everyday life. We've had our cats as long as some of our friends have had their children. Not a rational comparison, of course, but in some ways a bond with a cat can be just as acute. Cats never get too big to sit in your lap, and they never come home with inappropriate tatoos or purple hair. Although, in a frenzy of flea-chasing, Zoe would sometimes lick the fur on her spine straight up in a kind of mini body-mohawk. It was tough not to laugh, but she didn't care if you did. "Meep?" she'd say loftily, and trot outside.

Zoe was a cat without pretense. We hoped she would tell us when it was time for her to go, but in the end we had to make the decision for her. Molly the vet did everything she could to help us all through the transition.

I think we gave Zoe a happy life. Our last gift was to help ease her into the next one. After all, she's on a mission.