Matthew called a couple nights ago to tell us that Tabby, our 16-1/2-yo cat, had died. Her health had been failing for the past couple months so this was not unexpected. I am not the sort to grieve overmuch -- think stoic Scandinavian -- but I will miss her when I move back to Minneapolis for tax season.
Almost two years ago, when she was still living here, our two younger cats suddenly started bullying her. She quickly learned that the only safe place in this 3,000+ sq ft house was under my bed, and she refused to come out. We had to resort to putting her food and water and litter box in our bathroom and keeping our bedroom door shut to to protect her from those other two hooligans. This situation was untenable, and Smokey came up with the idea to move her to the Minneapolis house and let her live in our bedroom there. She was an old cat by this time and really preferred to be left in peace and quiet anyway. He would be there with her for at least two nights a week, and I am there February through April plus another month or so in the fall. That arrangement worked out quite well; she had the peace and quiet she loved, and we still had her affection when we were there.
She was not always so sedentary. As a youthful kitty she went through all the usual pantleg-climbing and sideways-dancing antics. At one point Andrew, who at 7 had been allowed to select which kitten we brought home from the Humane Society, declared that he had made a mistake and intended to take her back in exchange for one that wouldn't attack his ankles every time he walked past her. I had to give him some advice on what constituted normal kitten behavior and assure him that this, too, shall pass.
Her name was chosen by Andrew, as well, when he learned that a cat with stripes like these is referred to as a tabby. Not the most creative name, perhaps, but it was appropriate. Another name that attached during her adult years was Tank. She had a slightly stocky build which got much, much *stockier* during the winter when she didn't go outside. Every spring, though, she would shed that extra pound or two and regain her fighting weight.
She was a typical hunter cat, triumphantly bringing home the occasional mouse or vole, and once, the dead goldfinch that earned her a bell on her collar.
For a number of years we fostered litters of kittens from the Humane
Society, bringing them home either still in the womb or shortly after
birth (with their mother, of course). Our task was to socialize them
during the six or eight weeks we had them, in order to make them more
adoptable. (What a great program! I encourage anyone who can participate to do so. It enabled us to give our kids all the kittens they wanted but without the burden of permanent ownership, plus it was an enormous benefit for the kittens.)
Tabby, however, did not agree with our philosophy. Every summer -- we only did this in the summer when we were here at the lake and had lots of spare time -- she would discover the tiny invaders to her realm and promptly disappear into the woods. We might catch the occasional glimpse of her over the next couple months, but she didn't come back inside the house until well after the kittens and mother had been returned to the HS.
RIP, Tabby. We will miss your limpet behavior during the sleeping hours and your warm purr in our ear. (We will not miss the horked-up hairballs in the bed nor your love of sleeping on our face, but that's neither here nor there.) You were a good ol' cat and we loved you.
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My thanks also to Cathy-Cate, who entirely on her own, was trying to talk her parents into adopting this elderly bundle of purr who perhaps in her dotage needed more human companionship than we were able to give her. You are indeed a Friend of Kats™, C-K.
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Until yesterday I had been posting every day this month in my own under-the-radar version of NaNoBloPoMo. Yesterday, however, was an all-day county board meeting to adopt the budget. We were successful (yay!), but by the time I got home last night I was tired and had a headache and was not up even to publish a pre-written post. Oh, well, maybe next year...
