From the pictures that come with this story, you were probably expecting a warm and fuzzy tale about my pet cats. And I do love them.  But people who are familiar with my writing know that I don’t do warm and fuzzy.  And I don’t write sweet anecdotes about pets.  This will be the only one I will ever write.

When I was growing up, I was only allowed dime store turtles and I loved them to death.  Literally.  When they developed upper respiratory ailments in the winter, I would give them mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Then, I would get salmonella and they would get their entrails blown out (not really, but who gives a reptile mouth-to-mouth?).  Losing them was my worst nightmare.  My mother used to deck out in her baggy woolen pants and Iron Curtain-style kerchief and head out in the snow to bury them in little cardboard jewelry boxes in the backyard while I sobbed at the window. 

I received one dead duckling for my seventh birthday.  Why my parents got me a ducking, I will never know.  My birthday falls around Easter – they could’ve gotten me a spiral ham or a spring lamb or a doll – but no, they got me a duckling in a box.  The salesman must have been in a hurry when he was packaging up that little duck because it was dead as a doornail when I unwrapped it.  It wasn’t my best birthday.  And I don’t know what my parents did with the poor creature.  We may have had it for dinner.

I had a kitten for a few days when I was 12.  I loved it but got concerned when I saw it dangling from the staircase by its toenails.  I was afraid it would fall and hurt itself.  I expressed my concern to my parents.  Instead of explaining that cats land on their feet, they threw it into the family car and disposed of it while I was at school.  I never had another pet at home.

Finally, when I was fully grown and in my 20s, my future ex-husband brought home a kitten one day. “Dinky” belonged to our next-door neighbor, who also had two miniature French poodles.  The kitten only had eyes for me – and, you gotta know, I never called him “Dinky.”

Incidentally, my ex also bought me an exotic Bangkok leaf turtle for my 30th birthday.  It wasn’t exactly a snapping turtle.  It was more like a crapping turtle.  We ended up delivering it to the Atlanta Zoo where it is probably still alive and shitting.

At any rate, when we moved away, I would steal over to my old house and bring the cat home with me for a few hours.  One day, I got a call from my former neighbor.  She told me she knew I was catnapping her kitty and urged me to take him for good.  He was pining for me.  And I for him.  I was at her house 10 minutes later, carting him off.  I called him “Tivel.”  Or sometimes “Mousekowitz.

Tivel was a true soulmate.  He lived with me for 21 years, each year more precious than the year before.  He was an indoor/outdoor cat, but he never strayed too far from home. And, if he did, I would call his name from my front porch and he came running from wherever he was.  That was in Atlanta, back before the coyotes took over. I would never dream of having an outdoor cat now.  But now, I live in Santa Fe, NM. 

Tivel was a constant companion to me.  I brought him to business meetings, the library, the grocery store, the post office.  My ex found him a couple of companions from under our deck – a pair of box turtles who I named Sam and Ella (in homage to my early childhood experience).  When I got divorced, I managed to keep my pets.  It would’ve been a shame to split them up – they all liked to nestle in my hair.  

In his waning years, Tivel enjoyed hikes and car rides.  On his final Christmas Eve, I put him on my lap and let him drive.  It was such a magical night.  He marveled at all the holiday lights and a buck that loped beside my car as we made our way slowly through a festive, upscale Atlanta suburb. 

Before my sweet boy died, I took him to a Methodist retreat where we used to hike. There is a great expanse of lawn there.  I took him out into the middle of it and we talked about his wonderful life as we sprawled on the grass under a blue sky unobstructed by Atlanta’s omnipresent trees.  I spoke to him matter-of-factly before begging him to never leave me.  But I knew his time was growing short.  Twenty-one is 100 in human years.

A friend who’d had long experience as a pet owner told me, “When the time comes to let your cat go, you can’t be selfish.  You will have to let him go.”

How could I let him go?  I would never be able to let him go.  I would have to die with him. 

When I went to Florida to visit my parents that winter, I left Tivel to board at the vet.  After 21 years, everyone at the veterinary hospital was very familiar with and very fond of Tivel.  They didn’t even confine him to a cage.  He was left to roam at will in the head vet’s office.  Tivel was kind of the mayor of the hospital.

I was only going to leave him for a few days.  But, almost immediately, I got a call that Tivel was failing and I asked if I could make it back home in time to be with him.  The vet told me, “No.” 

“Mr. Tivel is dying,” he said.  “And he is going to start to suffer.”

I couldn’t have that.

“Put him on the phone,” I said.

Tivel and I talked for a good 10 minutes.  He was very responsive but I could hear his distress.  I told him I would always be with him and care for him.  I told him to not be afraid, that we would be together again.  I could hear people crying in the background.  It was an amazing encounter.  And then I got off the phone to face the deep grief I knew would never go away. I lost my baby 13 years ago and he’s still with me every day. 

I went to the ocean and watched the surf wash away his name, which I had etched into the sand.  I had another husband now – Grant.  He and I held each other and cried.

When we got home from Florida, Grant and I retrieved my little one’s remains and brought him to all the places we had been happy together – the aforementioned retreat, the river, his beloved backyard.  I took a bit of his fur and combined it with my hair and Grant’s hair and made a time capsule which I buried in the woods behind our house.  I would’ve left Tivel there as well, but I knew we would be leaving Atlanta and didn’t want to leave him alone in the cold ground.  I hated the thought of cremation, but that’s what we did so we could carry his remains with us when we moved.

I vowed I would never have another cat. 

But a few weeks later, a cat with a mustache started hanging around the house.  He belonged to the family across the street but spent most of his time with us.  And, like Tivel, he ate broccoli.  Then, the vet called and told me he had a kitten with my name on it. 

Ty was a a beautiful, smart and very willful kitten who had a penchant for sticking his tongue up my nose.  We kept him inside for his first year and then released him into the wild, to play with Sly, the cat with the mustache.  In fact, the first time we let the two cats interact, Ty rode Sly around the house like a Roman chariot.  They were fun to watch but, when my husband and I left Atlanta, we left Ty and Sly behind because Ty wouldn’t have survived as an outdoor cat in the desert and Sly didn’t belong to us altogether.

Ten years went by.  I kept running down to the Santa Fe Animal Shelter where I was a volunteer cat stroker (now there’s a job title!).  I visited other shelters as well, and never felt the remotest temptation to adopt another cat. 

I couldn’t get this cat out of my mind.  I kept dreaming about him.  So Grant went to see him.  The cat behaved the same way with Grant and Grant fell in love with him.  He loved Tivel, too, but he (and I) considered Tivel my cat.  Grant also ran from the store because he felt an instant attachment that he didn’t know if he wanted.

I told my yoga teacher about the cat.  She went to the store and got in touch with me right away. 

“The is a very special cat,” she said, “and he’s waiting for you.  You’d better go there right now to get him because all the other kitties are down with upper respiratory ailments and they’re on their way back to the shelter for treatment.”

Great! Did I want a kitten that was going to die in two weeks from an upper respiratory ailment?  No!  And I was long past giving animals mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  So I stayed home and agonized.  And I continued to dream about him.

Then I had lunch with another friend who had four cats.  “Go down there right now and get that cat,” she said.

So I did. I noticed that the shelter had named the kitten “Dayshaun.”  He must’ve come from the ‘hood.  And I also noticed that he was the only cat left standing.  All the other kittens were gone.

I walked up to the counter and said, “I want to adopt Dayshaun.”  You know I was never going to call him “Dayshaun.”

The woman behind the counter showed me some papers and said, “I’m afraid that Dayshaun has already been adopted. I expect his new owners imminently.”

“Well,” I said, “I guess we weren’t meant to be. Do you mind if I visit with him until his new owners come?”

“Not at all.”

A few minutes later, the woman came in and told me the people she was expecting weren’t coming.  Their landlord wouldn’t allow them to have a cat.

“I guess you have yourself a kitten,” she said.

“Not yet,” I said. 

I had left all my cat paraphernalia with my next-door neighbor in Atlanta, along with my cat.  So I made a beeline for Petsmart and bought supplies.  And then I went back to the consignment shop to bring my new baby home.  I could see, right from the start, that he loved car rides (I should have noticed that he only loved them when he was in a carrier – more on that coming up).

Grant and I named our kitten “Alfie,” although sometimes we call him “Mr. Pants” because he’s such a smarty.  We allow him full reign of the house and spend lots of time playing with him. He’s particularly good at soccer.  And, speaking of soccer, he has a fabulous collection of spongy blue balls that he likes to soak thoroughly in his water bowl and deliver to us as presents.  Who doesn’t want to have a houseful of wet blue balls?

We were so thrilled to be with Alfie, we wanted him with us at all times.  We bought him a halter and leash so we could take him on car rides without worrying about him escaping and getting devoured by predators. Unfortunately, when I picked him up in his new halter to transfer him to the the car, he became terrified and nearly tore off my right breast as he kicked off my body to run madly around the garage. I’m afraid I will always bear a small reminder of that encounter.  Fortunately, Grant thinks my scar looks sexy.  Makes me look tough – hence, the title of this article.  At last.