Author: Shireen

Tybalt, a.k.a. Tybby, my little pal of nearly 16 years, passed away this week.

I shared these thoughts with about 30 people who either lived with, visited, fed, poop-scooped (ew!), or simply listened to me talk about Tybby as if he were human (and, bless their hearts, never had me committed as a wacky ‘cat lady’). Please bear with me. After all, this guy stayed with me longer than any other; that alone merits an ode.

Tybby Tybs was no ordinary cat. For starters, boy was he handsome (or “a-HANI-some” as one friend was known to call out each visit)! Such a special color (called ‘buff’ and ‘fawn’ by vets who know). Such a perfect little face. And, as another friend noted, he had this neat bullseye pattern of white stripes on his side that you could see only when he sprawled out just so on the floor. And his meow: he talked, I swear he did; I’d call, he’d answer. Different meows for different circumstances. He also would meow on demand into the phone. Plus, he purred louder than any cat I’ve met. Purred all the time! So cute.

Now you might be thinking, “poor woman, she’s found a way to ignore the one glaring characteristic all this cat’s acquaintances remember Tybby by: his Absolutely Certifiable Insanity.” But you’d be wrong. I am well aware that Tybby was not 100% there in his little macadamia-nut-sized brain. All kidding aside, though, Tybs did have an unpredictable, often very scary side. More than once, he attacked people for no apparent reason, myself included, and badly injured one of my best friends (thank you for not prosecuting!), not to mention several ex-boyfriends (hm, not feeling so bad about the latter). Tybby was dangerous when he was having one of his “tear around the house” fits, or when he simply decided he was done letting you pet him (that short circuit on the cat-brain map on my fridge, remember?). And then there were the unexplainable “Tybby just thinks you’re the devil so wait in the car so he doesn’t rip your lungs out” relationships. To you (and you know who you are), I apologize and thank you sincerely for remaining my friends. And allergies: so, so many of you (and your significant others) suffered through being my housemate or visitor when, no matter how much I tried to rid the house of cat hair, Tybby’s potent dander made you miserable. Thank you for bearing with that!

When Tybby died, I called a few people who were pivotal in his life. One who was there when I brought him home in 1989, one who was his first housemate (and whose surname is his middle name), and one who coined the very phrases and secret-language things I continued saying right up to the end. And the nicknames… Tybby Tybs, Tybbles, Mr. Tybs, Poo-poo Head, Li’l Man… I can’t take credit for a single one. I love that they all loved him, despite his faults, and that they have fun memories of him just as I do.

Memories these friends have shared so far this week include “the first mouse Tybby caught and dissected in living room” and “the time Tybs got out in a snowstorm…and sunk up to his ears!” and, memorably, “Mom goes away for Thanksgiving and Tybby gets stuck in a box for three days (not funny).”

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that, in addition to me, Tybby leaves a step-sister, Margaret. Maggie (a.k.a. The Lump, Schmags, Mingie) is holding down the fort. And believe me, as long as she’s in this fort, it ain’t getting airborne. Speaking of Maggie’s girth, now that Tybby’s gone, it will be much easier for me to regulate Maggie’s eating! Atkins, here she comes.

Obviously, I loved Tybby immensely. He was my first pet — the first that was my own — and I will never forget him. Thanks to this ridiculously long, slightly concerning love letter, now neither will you! If you’re still reading, you must be as loopy about animals as I am. That’s why I love you, too