As I sit here working, I can see a cat out of my window. This is actually quite rare. Santa Cruz is a pretty doggy place. From hulking Hispanic dudes squiring minuscule Chihuahuas, to petite West Side moms out jogging in the company of a Wolfhound, the canine world has a big paw print in this town. I can understand why. People here like to exercise and go to the beach and hike and stuff, and dogs are totally up for that, especially if they get to madly dash about to no discernable purpose. Imagine the response of a cat to being told it was going running, or to the beach. It wouldn’t have to say anything. The look on its face would be enough.
Now, I don’t mind dogs. I can see the point of them, and since arriving have struck up affable acquaintanceships with a few belonging to friends. I am, however, a cat person. Inveterate, long term, through and through. A big cost of coming to live here in California, however, has been saying goodbye — or at least au revoir — to my own.
Quite soon after we got together, my wife and I traveled to Scotland to acquire a cat. We didn’t do it that way just to make our lives difficult, but because we’d encountered the Burmilla breed courtesy of my editor and thought we might like to have one. On being confronted with a room full of kittens our initial resolve crumbled and we wound up leaving with two, a brother and sister we called Spangle and Tilly.
Tilly was — and remained — tiny and feisty, the first of the litter to be born; Spangle was far more shy, and larger, the last of the same litter. They were white and grey, yin and yang, and for seventeen years these cat people enlivened and enriched every moment of our lives. There were downsides, like the fact their housecat status (for a long time we lived in flats, and neighborhoods where the feline territory wars were fierce) meant we could never leave doors or windows open, and the amount of fur shed per unit time eventually gave my wife a lasting allergy. Both cats came into the study to work with me every day, however, and hung out with us on the sofa in the evening, and slept next to our heads every night. I loved them both, but Spangle is as good a friend as I’ve ever had.
Then we discovered Santa Cruz and realized that’s where we needed to live. Concern about the cats was wound into this decision from the very first, and we came out here for an exploratory year on the strict understanding that, once we’d found our feet, the cats would follow. We had someone they knew house-sitting our property in London, and looking after them, and so — while I know they missed us — their life went on pretty much as normal.
Until, after three months, Tilly died.
She’d been ailing for a year or two, and we’d been dripping fluids into her on a weekly basis for eighteen months before we left. Finally it got too much for her, and she went. Anyone who’s lost an animal, especially after so long, and when you weren’t able to be there at the end, will be able to guess how that felt.
They will probably also be able to understand my feelings on realizing that Spangle, now eighteen, is simply too old to fly. You can’t transport animals across the Atlantic in the cabin. They have to fly in the hold. They travel in custom-made crates and every effort is made to protect their wellbeing, but I’m not putting my old friend Spangle through that. Instead he’s gone into retirement with my widowed father, and the arrangement seems to be working very well. Both are happy, and look after one another.
It’s hard, though.
Jean Cocteau said “I love cats because I enjoy my home, and little by little, they become its visible soul”. That’s both beautiful and true. The house we’re living in now, though good and comfortable, feels a little empty without a feline presence — especially the presence of our own particular cats.
Life costs, I guess, and rates of exchange are hard to fathom.
The cat I glimpsed earlier is still out there. I’ve no idea who it belongs to, and he’s not doing much of interest, just staring vaguely in the bushes. It’s strange how much difference his presence makes, even though he doesn’t know I’m watching.
I miss my cat.
We’ve finally gotten to the point of wondering whether we should encourage some local felines to come and share our lives here, not least because I think my son needs a pet, as all children do. If we go ahead, I’m sure it will be a good thing, and that our lives will be enriched in the way that only those creatures are capable of.
But I still miss my cat.
Please, go to shelter and adopt a young adult cat. There are so many, and adult cats do not have much of a chance as most people want kittens. Of all the cats we had over the years, the adults we took into our home were the most lovable. We still miss them all horribly.
I actually wandered by a shelter the other day :-) The rest of the family is pretty locked on the idea of Burmillas again, but – should it happen – they may turn out only to be the beginning. You’re right – there are a lot of cats out there that need a home.
Wow. It must have taken a large amount of courage to leave your beloved cats behind. And I’m sorry about the loss of Tilly.
I can’t imagine having a pet that long. I keep guinea pigs (two at the moment) but their shelf life is about three years and as they spend most of their lives holed up in tiny places, only coming out to run around madly in circles for thirty seconds or when you dangle a carrot stick in the doorway, you don’t form the same attachments. (Although I still cry when they die.)
I’ve never owned a cat. But I see the appeal of them. It must be nice to own (or be owned by) a living hot water bottle.
I hope you and your wife decide to get more cats. If you’re used to having them around, it must be hard not to have that feline presence.
It’s not the same but we keep chickens (and the aforementioned guinea pigs). It’s weird but even chickens have their own personalities. Some are shy, some are friendly. One used to sit on my boyfriend’s shoulder or get into his hood and snuggle down.
Once, when we thought we were moving, we got rid of all the chickens in preparation. But our plans changed and we stayed. We moped about the house for a couple of days, missing the chickens. Having a plot of land with no living animals on it seemed like an insult to nature. So we got another flock and set them free to graze and scratch and lay eggs and climb on blocks.
We’ll be forced to get rid of this flock soon too (as we’re definitely moving this year) but this time, we’ll keep them right up to the last minute.
Thank you – and yes, it was probably one of the toughest decisions I’ve ever made. Who knows whether it was the right one, but…
I’ve never had guinea pigs, but my wife is a big fan and evidently had quite a few before we met. She keeps muttering about having them again some time, so who knows… :-) Very interesting to hear that chickens have personalities. I guess I assumed they sort of must, but I’ve never been close enough to find out. We have a friend up in the mountains who’s just started rearing them… I must go visit her and sit with them a while :-)
When I moved to London, I had some of the same dilemmas (except that the quarantine period to get into the UK is so hard — on us and the animals). I decided my dogs wouldn’t be happy in quarantine, so I left them with someone. Fortunately I made it home before they passed away, but it was hard. Every time I saw another dog, I missed my own.
One of my dogs was a lovely beagle named Dakota. He and I were meant for one another from the beginning. When I went away, sitters would say he would stay by the door or window and watch out every day, waiting for me to return. They said he hardly ate or wanted to go outside. When he was 12, I went to visit my dying Grandfather. Dakota had not been sick. But on the way home from seeing my Grandfather for the last time, my mom called to tell me that Dakota was in distress. The vet said he wouldn’t live through the night. We got home 1/2 hour before he passed. He waited for me. One last time.
And I still miss him. It’s been 5 years, and I still miss him. Other dogs just aren’t the same.
So I completely understand your feelings about Spangle. Those furry companions who we belong to are special. And every once in a while they, like us, find the right person to connect with. You were both lucky to have found one another.
Your story about Dakota was so affecting I actually had to walk away from the computer for a while. And you’re so right – upside of how much we miss animal friends is that we only feel that way because of an extraordinarily special bond that has existed. It’s instructive, perhaps, how much can be communicated between two beings that don’t speak the same language.
Cats are the only serial killers one would actually want to spend your time with. You put up with the odd mangled corpse because sometimes, they actually let you know they LIKE you. And when they come storming down the stairs to greet you or (in my case) jump off the garden wall onto your head, they make you feel like Odysseus, home from the wars…
That’s very true :-)
Just looked up Burmillas, and can see why you like them so much. I grew up with a Beagle & a Russian Blue, and our family was pretty distraught when they died. There are now two very cheerful Cardigan Corgis at my parents’ house when I visit… but it’s not the same.
Funny – there’s been a certain amount of speculation about a Beagle in our household. Maybe further down the line… It’s never the same, greeting animals that aren’t the ones you grew up with. But I like the idea of ‘cheerful corgis’ – that sounds like a good thing :-)
I love reading your blogs. Am always rapt, no matter how mundane. Even blogs about ants.
This one did bring a tear to my eye though and makes me thoroughly grateful for the amazing cat in my life. We had decided to get one a couple of years back, had cleared it with our landlord and had started perusing our local cat shelter. We couldn’t find a cat that spoke to us though.
One night, I was walking home from the shops, and a very small, ginger cat ran out of a garden and wound his way around my legs. I petted him for a while then moved on. He followed me for 200 yards down my street, darted in between my legs as I opened the door, made himself comfy on our sofa and has been with us ever since.
We checked and checked for an owner, but no one came forward and he wasn’t chipped.
I’m honoured to have been chosen by my cat, rather than the other way ’round.
So, Michael, meet the other Spangle… https://www.facebook.com/mrspanglepants
He’s one up on my cat, if he’s got his own Facebook page… :-)
I think cats always choose, or should. When we got ours Tilly took one look at us when we came in the room, effectively shouldered aside the other eight in her litter, and just jumped on my lap as if to say “Right – are we going now, then?” I’m just glad we also spotted the much more scaredy one lurking on the other side of the room, and took him home too.
You are a good man Mike. We knew that the first time we met you and how you lovingly spoke of Tilly and Spangle. And don’t let us pull you to the dark side of adopting a minpin, although you would understand these tormented souls better than most.
Well, there’s one minpin that’s been lucky not to find herself coming home with me in my pocket a few times… :-)
When I moved from Australia to London, I made the decision of leaving my beautiful rescue cat, Jest, behind. He’d been found in a parking lot by a friend and most said he wouldn’t make it (his brother, found the same way, was actually put down because he was so feral, but Jest was scared where his brother was vicious), but I persisted and over time he turned into a skittish and odd, but wonderful, companion. He was a housecat as I had no doubt that he couldn’t survive in the outside world.
Two weeks before I was due to fly out, Jest disappeared from the second storey balcony on which he’d perch and watch the world go by. I never thought that balcony to be viable egress so never begrudged him his post. Live and gather more respect for their adventurous spirit. I mourned him, moved cities, but thought of him often.
A few years later I got an incredible email from the friend who initially found him. It was her details that were registered on his microchip and turns out a family had found him after he ran away and only now thought to take him to the vet. The vet scanned the chip and contacted my friend. The family were petrified I’d come back and claim this “stray” they adopted lovingly as their own.
I had no plans to come back to Melbourne and said so, but asked that they send me photos. The photos arrived and there was my cat… yet not my cat. Jest with children? He could barely stand more than one person in a room at the same time. Jest sitting on a fencepost by a road? He ran to the other side of the house when a door slammed slightly too loud. Seeing those photos was like seeing an ex happy with someone else, the person you knew in a different skin. Or maybe the skin’s the same, it’s everything else that’s changed.
It sounds sappy to say, but that cat taught me more about life than I would have thought possible. I love the idea that he’s out there somewhere, still defying the odds. Only problem is that he was so wonderful I cannot imagine ever replacing him.
Any tips for moving on?
The only tip I’ve got is one that I think you’ve just given me. Forgive me if this sounds kinda hippy, but cats are the one thing that tends to make me think that way.
Your story about Jest – which stopped me in my tracks – feels at least slightly similar to mine with Spangle. There’s no question that having him in my life taught me a huge amount, and I found it a lot easier to experience certain kinds of emotions with him than I do most humans. The fact that he’s still out there, living a different life, is also similar. It’s tough, that: partly because – as you say, it’s like discovering an ex is not only managing but thriving without you; partly also because you may have felt that you made a lifelong contract with that particular cat, which you’re failing to honor. I do, too, and that’s what makes it hard for me to contemplate new cats, a prospect which is getting closer and closer.
But I also think, and this is something your comment has made me feel more strongly… it’s not a zero sum game. Jest evidently relished his time with you. You brought him out, made him feel safe, and taught him that hanging with humans could work. That’s not in the least negated by the fact your lives have diverged through a choice you had to make – in fact, his current happy status is precisely a reflection of it. His new family evidently values him just as you did, and that’s the important thing. A happy cat, in a good home. It’d be better if it could be *your* home, but that’s not how life panned out. At least he’s still around, and content.
Probably the best and only thing you can do is start opening the door to the idea of welcoming a new cat into your life. There’s a degree to which — and this is one of the magical things about cats — while they’re utterly individual, all are also facets of some giant uber-cat. It’s not like that with dogs. When you stroke a cat, you stroke all cats. Jest is still your cat. Always will be. Sometimes, as with children, I suppose, you have to hand the day-to-day reigns over to someone else, with the feelings of loss that entails. Can’t change it, get around it, it is what it is.
He’s still your cat, and every time you think of him proves it. But meanwhile there’s another cat out there who *doesn’t* have that care and companionship, and is waiting. It’d be a waste not to use the things Jest taught you.
You’re so right. Both our lives were enriched by the other’s presence. If only all relationships were thus, the world would be a much better place. Maybe it’s not Jest I miss so much as having a cat and perhaps the very point of another cat is that s/he won’t be Jest. I’ll have never experienced him/her and s/he will have never experienced me and hopefully our lives will be better for having each other in them.
If anyone ever says anything bad about the internet around me, I’m going to point to this exchange and say “one of my favourite writers is giving me cat relationship advice. Your argument is invalid.”
Yes: if I had more relationships like I’ve had with cats, I’d be a far more relaxed human being. You miss Jest specifically – how could you not? – but this –
… is as true a thing as I’ve ever read. Good luck :-)
I have always been a dog person, and I don’t know why but your post makes me want a cat. I love my dog (a Silky Terrier called Jack – great breed and does not shed) and he will often join me in my home office, under the desk or on his chair in there. But maybe a cat in my future, who knows?
Dogs and cats are the best pets but only because we spend so much time with them, I think, and because they interact with us so well (although I can’t get over the cruelty they get treated with in some countries).
JAn …
“Only problem is that he was so wonderful I cannot imagine ever replacing him.”
I don’t think you ever really replace a cat, so don’t worry. You just spend time with a new one. I mean, how many cats can most people outlive? It’s horrid and rather sad if you think about it!
We’ve had many cats, mostly rescued from a strange and kind lady called Celia Hammond. I love them all but definitely have favourites. (Shhhh – don’t tell them)
We have three siblings at the moment. Two black and white and one fluffy grey and white. The littlest, ugliest, oddest little cat sits on me whenever possible, cries for me, wants to accompany me on every bathroom visit (she also bites me) and I enjoy her company the most. The two boys can take me or leave me, which is how I am with them. They are the most beautiful cats though, admired by friends far more than my Mills, but she’s the best.
I would love to be chosen by a cat although we don’t seem to get many strays where I live (which is a good thing!)
This thread moved me to talk about my friend Larry.
In 1999, my girlfriend had a thick-necked, ex-linebacker landlord. An uber male type I’m not overly fond of. Guy wanted a big, bully, rambunctious Labrador for his rambunctious son. What he had instead was a sweet, runty specimen that shivered whenever Mr. Linebacker came within sniffing distance. For a reason. Abuse. All because it wasn’t the dog he’d wanted.
I was shocked to learn that the Lab was two years old. Full-grown. He was so undernourished, undersized, jutting bones, all that. The heavy-duty collar that connected him to a chain was on so tight I couldn’t even squeeze a finger between it & his neck. His nose was abraded from refusing the cheap-garbage kibble pellets that Linebacker Man tossed on the ground. And I felt a knot on his rib. A healed break from being kicked? Probably. But this dog had the face & nature of an angel. His tail had wagged the very first time I approached him. Why should he trust me? I really don’t know.
The girlfriend & I parted ways but before moving on I did go & offer cash in exchange for the little yellow fellow. There was no haggling as both seller & buyer were motivated. Boy, he was easy to love. I’d have paid a lot more.
I renamed him Larry, as all the Larrys I’d ever known were goofy & benign. Yes, he got fat (though never obese), & he was the most agreeable of companions during road trips to visit Yellowstone, Moab, Crater Lake, Rincon Beach, & the sequoias in the Sierras (peeing on one in complete non-acknowledgment of its impossible size & age). He never stopped smiling from the moment I took that damn collar off. He was my best friend for a decade.
Then he started having fainting spells & was diagnosed with an enlarged heart. Expensive meds tamped down the symptoms but he was always panting to adequately oxygenate his blood. His breathing was so ragged I had to sleep with foam earplugs (as his place was always beside me on the bed). One night he went into an exaggerated stretch, as if to release his spirit. I was holding his head, telling him he could go, when his eyes just went out of focus. It took three hours to dig a worthy final resting place for him in the backyard. I was fat & out of shape but had it required three more hours, or six, I could have done it. The strength came from somewhere deep.
Within a month I developed a lump in the throat. Couldn’t even swallow my own spit. Uh-oh, cancer. Went to the doc, but he found nothing untoward. Did my own research on the interweb & ultimately decided I had globus pharyngis, which is psychogenic – a manifestation of anxiety/depression. So I talked to myself about it being all in my mind & the “lump” disappeared within a day or so. I just missed Larry. There was a hole in the soul I hadn’t filled with something else. He was irreplaceable, so I’d just left it empty.
Four months later when some older acquaintances, recently retired & wanting to travel, announced they were giving up their dog, I raised my hand. This squirrelly mix of Pomeranian & Australian cattle dog I renamed Piddly – for his size & habit. The perky, feisty little twit took only a week to bite the neighbor lady on the leg, right among the varicose veins. Most un-Labrador-like. But he filled the Larry-hole in his own way, which had seemed so impossible. I still talk to Larry though, who’s out there under the shade of a red cedar, lying on his side & comfortable. I let him know I’m still thinking of him.
The point: Michael, please find a cat-buddy no one wants anymore. Go to a shelter, save a little guy or gal on death row. Or check out Craigslist. Don’t go to a breeder or a pet shop. Larry always KNEW I saved him & never let me forget it.
I thought I had a handle on how important animal friends are to us, but this thread and your story have made me realise just how astonishingly strong those bonds really are, and how defining for both the human and the animal. We save them sometimes, and sometimes they save us: a lot of the time it’s probably both together. I don’t know if you know a Robinson Jeffers poem called THE HOUSE DOG’S GRAVE, but your note made me think of it.