Our little friend of almost fourteen years. She was fully grown and had had a couple litters by the time we moved in that old shoddily refurbished army barracks, so we're not even sure how old she is--I'd have liked to have seen her as a kitten, because she does have sweet marks. She was given the rather stupid name 'Kayla' by our landlord's granddaughter, who promptly forgot about her once she was no longer a kitten (this granddaughter went on to adore then neglect an astonishing array of rabbits, ducks, cats, dogs and geese over the years, and because the animal control people feared the family, little was done).
Calico was an ignored outdoor cat who lived on our landlord's porch, in his garage and lived off his scraps (we once found a ham in the dish they had in their driveway, pineapples and all--and she would be found drinking out of an upturned garbage can lid after a rain). She's had a chronic respiratory infection her whole life despite all medications, and so her constant purr always had an odd but sweet coo to it, like a pigeon's. She's always had a high-pitched but smooth, melodic, slightly whiny mew, quite vocal. Being a sweet-natured 7lb. runt with few remaining teeth, she was the punching bag for all the other cats in the neighborhood who routinely ate her food as she helplessly watched. It didn't take her long to adopt us once we moved into the cramped old rented shack next door.
(God, we were so young, miserable and poor then--but there were many wonderful, happy and carefree times, too. Calico was with us through it all, and is almost an emblem of that trying but charmed period in our lives, when we were sustained by the farms, paddocks and forests around us. We had rudimentary shelter, trees, cheap nearby produce, birds, insects, frogs and bicycles to reach them all--we didn't need much else, although the winters were hard. I recall working through many cold nights editing the self-published versions of The Almanack--and later the Companion--wrapped in three house robes, scarf and a stocking cap because the winter wind would rip right through that flimsy four-room house.)
Time and again it fell upon us to care for Calico and get her medical attention, but we were not allowed pets, so we had a little shelter set up for her on our back porch, where we always had shelter, food and water. When there was a disturbance of some sort, she would come over to the porch, where she felt safest. We brought her in on the coldest nights or hottest days, especially as she aged and became more frail. During snows, I would shovel a little path to our porch so she could keep her prissy little feet dry in transit; many times I remember seeing only a tail making its way among the drifts to our porch soon after I'd made the customary cat canal. In fact, sometimes she would patiently wait in my landlord's driveway as I shoveled my way to her.
She kept us company on the porch and in the yard in the warmer months, and was always a sweet-tempered little cat, a real love sponge--the only cat who ever let me rub its belly until my hand was sore.
In May of 2005 she lost an eye in a fight while we were away one weekend (I was doing a signing at Barneys--seems so long ago now). It quickly got infected, and she was on the verge of death on our porch by the time we returned. It was upsetting to know that she had dragged herself to our porch, where she felt safest. Which of course, was true. Equally upsetting was to see what quickly befell her as soon as we weren't there to protect her from the other animal's aggression and our neighbor's callousness. After some rehydration and a course of antibiotics she mended nicely, if not a bit worse for wear. She always looked like a little ratty bag of sticks after that, bless her heart.
We stole her when we left that moldy shack for our present house (couldn't bear the thought of leaving her behind, and she would have died of neglect anyway--the landlord son's cat a few doors down had literally frozen solid on his porch one winter night, and had to be pried off the next morning, or whenever they noticed).
Little Miss was a house cat ever since the move, and reveled in her newfound creature comforts, warm napping spots galore, and endless vittles. We actually had to teach her how to play with string and toys, since no one other than us had ever done that with her. She was quickly spoiled rotten, and rightly so, since the comforts many cats are born into and never do without were luxuries to her: this was a farm cat who hadn't used a litter box until a year ago (well, almost a year). We dearly wish she was able to enjoy being this comfy and content for much longer than a mere eleven months; the customary platitude of "At least she had a good life" rings fairly hollow in Calico's case. It seems terribly unjust, but sadly, these outcomes seem more the rule than the exception for such vulnerable, helpless things (This isn't called a "world of mud and tears" for nothing). Still, we're thankful she at lest knew a loving home, however briefly.
This is her last night with us. We take her in to be euthanized tomorrow: the aggressive pelvic tumor has rendered her rear legs useless, and she hasn't passed anything for days. All she can keep down is baby food; the vets seem to agree that the bone cancer has likely spread, and has all but shut down her gut, and she'll soon go septic and die awfully otherwise.
We have a plot ready for her in the garden, where she'll be buried in her favorite napping blanket. The house will seem empty without her silent but soothing presence.
Sleep well, little pigeon. Be at peace. You had a harsh, unfair life but you remained a sweet, gentle creature to the very end. You deserved so much more--but you were loved.
