Martin and Miss Kitty
I was never a cat person. Our family had dogs. And as these things go, it turned out that I was allergic, sometimes violently allergic, to cats. So it all kind of worked out.
Several years ago, my mother-in-law was looking out in her back yard and noticed a little black kitten stepping gingerly through the lawn to a little pond for a drink. The next day, she saw her again. She opened her door and called out to the cat, but the little girl scampered off. But the next day, she was back again. So, Mom started leaving a bowl of water and one of actual cat food on her back steps and over time, the little black kitten started risking it all to climb those steps for a little meal and the comfort and safety of her little perch.
Mom worked on her for days and days, first leaving the back door open and talking to the little girl through the screen, and then handing little cat treats out to her. Finally, the kitten decided she was on the up-and-up and let herself get talked into coming inside the home.
Mom was shocked to discover why the kitten walked funny through the back yard. Someone had taken… maybe, some pliers and removed the claws from the front paws. And they didn’t do a very careful job of it, either. That’s why she ran away and that’s why she was so distrustful of people.
Over time, sisters-in-law and grandkids would appear in the home and “Miss Kitty” would dart upstairs to hide for the duration of their visits. But at some point, she would let my wife Kathie pet her, feed her and tickle her over her eyes and under her chin.
And then one day Mom was forced to move. It was awful, but she took Miss Kitty with her. And it was never going to work out. Mom was happy maybe twenty or thirty minutes in her new little apartment. And one day we all got the terrible news that Mom was dead. We gathered at her place and discussed what we should do about X, Y and Z. All the while Miss Kitty was making wide circles around us. It was decided that the Farm Sister would take her. But we found out they were holding her downstairs in the basement of their home and sometimes didn’t see her or check on her for a day or so.
On hearing that, Kathie began to campaign for our taking her and bringing her home with us. We stopped by the drug store and got a bunch of no-sneeze-‘um and Kathie went to pick her up and bring her back. She had the run of the house. The bedroom door was always opened but she never bothered to venture out, much. She preferred to sit at the southeast corner of the bed in our bedroom, and wait for the sun to glide over her as she thought her kitty thoughts. Her potty was at the foot of the bed and her bowls were nearby, too. She would very occasionally wander up to see us both while we watched TV at night, but most of her time was spent on that corner. In the evenings she shared a bit of this space with our GoldenDoodle, Martin, as seen in the photo.
After a couple of years, she began to move less and less. She mostly stopped grooming herself and her fur matted in places. She kept her appetite though, and she learned to communicate with us on some level. Upon my entering the bedroom, I would be met with a greeting that, so help me, sounded like she was saying “How’reYoooou?” And I would reply “Well, I’m fine today, Miss Kitty! How are you?” and she would turn her face toward the window once again.
We never knew how old she was, and a Lady never tells. But yeah, one night the story ended. She crawled up between Kathie and me, between our elbows and our shoulders, as if she just wanted to be nearer to us. I stroked her head and down her back for half an hour or so while she sighed and closed her eyes and laid her head down. And at some point we noticed. Miss Kitty was gone.
We were extra careful to bind her up and took her to the Capital Humane Society, with some of her toys and treats and food. We picked up her remains a couple of days later in a nice little Tupperware-like box and we plan to take her out and sprinkle her on Mom some time soon.
Mom meant a lot to me over the past thirty years. She was terrific to me and I don’t mean to be mean in saying this, but she treated me better than my own mother treated me for much of that time. I was asked why I would put myself through all of that—the drugs, the nasal sprays, the eye drops and the tissues… and I told them it was easy. It was the last nice thing I could do, taking care of her little girl.
