I struck one of my most enduring relationships 14 years ago on the grounds
of a sewage treatment plant. That was the site of the dog pound in the
southern Indiana county where I lived then. It consisted of dirty overcrowded
cages full of scared unkempt strays with little protection from the elements.
I knew about this dog pound because as a reporter for a weekly newspaper
in my first job out of college one of my duties was to take a photos of
animals there who were up for adoption. I had never looked closely at
the cats’ quarters before; the caretaker was partial to publicizing dogs.
But the cats’ cages were crammed with dozens of cats-so many that some
were forced to perch on the overflowing kitty litter pans in the corners.
We told the indifferent woman who ran the place that we were looking for
a female. She shrugged and grabbed the first cat at the cage door flipping it over
to peek under the tail. “This one’s a girl,” she said handing her to me.
I held the striped black gray and white kitten to my chest while the
woman continued her assembly-line process of grabbing a cat flipping it
over announcing male or female and plopping it unceremoniously back.
We watched one by one as the woman grabbed flipped announced
grabbed flipped announced. And all the time the purring kitten perched
near my right shoulder didn’t move.
I couldn’t bring myself to loosen her grip. So we took her home.
I had no idea then that 14 years later when death finally took her from
me that that spot near my heart would feel so empty.
***
Once we got the kitten home we inspected more closely. She sported a limp
a raw notch in her ear and scratches on her nose. Fleas were clambering all
over each other in search of fur space. And we discovered when we took her to
the vet the next day that she also was sickened by worms and some sort of infection.
In short she was a mess. So looking for a newspaper-type name that was also
descriptive I named her Typo.
Of course with a name like that she wouldn’t be an ordinary cat.
Typo was almost doglike in her affections. Every night when I drove up her head
would peek out the curtains as a precursor to her mad dash to the door to greet me.
She’d chat back and forth-although with Typo it was more of a trill than a
standard meow with phrases that tended to end on a high note for emphasis.
She’d usually be in mid-trill as she’d meet me at the door leaping from halfway
across the room to my shoulder for a purr and a hug.
I’d be hard-pressed to name anyone else ever showing more delight at my
long-awaited entrance into a room. And she claimed that spot on my right
shoulder as her own even though she quickly grew so large that she
practically draped over it with me supporting the rest of her on my chest.
When we’d go to the vet say the doctor would invariably have to retrieve
her from that spot. It was her safe place.
Some people acknowledge the importance of their pets by describing them as
members of the family. Well they can be. I come from a sentimental family that
fondly reminisces about long-dead family pets as if they were cherished
royal relatives. But Typo was even more than that.
In 14 years of tough times-a difficult divorce the birth of a child job struggles,
several moves illnesses and deaths of friends and relatives-Typo was a friend
a constantly caring presence. And she was a one-woman cat.
Sure in time she came to tentatively seek out the affections of my new husband
and the little boy who had finally learned not to pull her tail or drool on her.
But I was the one who in her eyes had earned her devotion with whom
she’d lived through thick and thin. I was the one she followed around the house
watching for an opportunity to snuggle.
In the last month of her life I was the only one who could persuade her to eat.
***
A few months ago I took her to the vet for a checkup. She was acting
fine if a little crotchety toward the other two cats in the house; but
even though she’d always been a lean cat I still wanted to make certain
her thinning frame wasn’t cause for concern. The vet found a thyroid
disorder. We took home some medicine and agreed to come back for a checkup.
A month later we discovered that she’d lost 2 of her 8 pounds. One pupil
was dilated while the other was not. The next day the other eye became
severely bloodshot. The vet theorized that perhaps she had a brain tumor
that in fact had caused the thyroid problem.
We could put her through the testing that might tell us for certain she
said; but at the age of 14 quality-of-life issues come into play. And
misery-causing diagnoses and treatment might well be futile. So we agreed
to make persuading her to eat a priority and otherwise to wait and see.
So for the next few weeks I lavished her with attention and spent every
few hours peddling different flavors of fancy canned cat food to her.
It seemed to be working: She regained some energy and her eyes had
returned to normal.
The Monday after the Fourth of July weekend Typo heard me awaken early
to take some medicine and she ran down the hall trilling to greet me.
We climbed back into bed where she purred and rubbed and when I rolled
over to go back to sleep she curled in the crook of my legs to join my nap.
About an hour later I reached over and stroked her head-my warning to
her that I was ready to haul my lumbering 8-months-pregnant body out of
bed-and she lifted her head to look at me. After I got up I looked over
and saw that her paws were draped over the side of the bed where she’d
collapsed as she’d started to join me. I picked her up and cradled her
to my chest as she died.
I tell myself that at least I was with her that it seemed quick and
sudden and that she knew she was loved. She didn’t die at home alone or
in a sterile veterinarian’s office surrounded by strangers. It gives me
a little comfort: She died in her favorite spot where she still lives.
Close to my heart.
| Typo |