Yesterday was one of those more difficult days. We had to put our cat, Keisha, to sleep when she began a decline after contracting a rare, in cats, skin cancer. Now it wasn’t as though she had a short life. To the contrary, she lived nearly 17 years, a very long and pampered life for a cat.

Just the same, it was difficult. Now, I’m not one of these people who place a value on the life an animal above that of a human. In fact I tend to hold those who do, i.e. PETA et. al., in deep contempt. Still, I think we have a responsibility to care for those creatures which we call our pets, those domestic animals we have removed from the wild and brought into our homes to care for and provide for ourselves the un-mitigated love at which they excel.

It was in October of 1988 when Keisha came into my life. My wife Carol discovered her outside the office door on the parking lot of the church she where she worked as receptionist at the time. This tiny pure black ball of fur was estimated to be only 6 weeks old, barely had her eyes open and Carol, a cat lover brought her home to the townhouse we were living in at the time against my protests.

We already had a special exemption to the rule against pets for our toy poodle; another animal in the house just wouldn’t fly. But Carol said it was just going to be long enough to find her a home. By December we had found her a new home in the country. It was a brand new rental house outside town in a somewhat remote area. When we moved in Keisha immediately made herself at home.

My relationship with Keisha ran the gamut. When she came into our home as a 6-week old kitten she immediately stole my heart, even though I had never had a cat and swore I never would. She would ignore my protests and just crawl on my chest and go to sleep.

Over the years as she grew, she developed that independent nature we find so familiar in cats. That attitude that says, “You feed me, you give me a bed and a home, you love me, I must be god.” She was the queen of the house and didn’t require a lot of attention, but when she wanted it you had better pay attention. She wouldn’t let you pass until you recognized her presence and provided the requisite “lovin’.”

She never went outside, we had de-clawed her as a kitten, an act I will never impose on another animal. But she never acted very interested in going out. At the home she lived in the longest we had a back porch fully screened floor to ceiling and she loved to sit out and watch the animals, birds, squirrels butterflies and other critters come to visit the garden pond and feeders.

Her tail would nervously twitch as she flattened herself to the ground, her ears against her head, trying to disappear into the decking as her “prey” passed by. She never tried to leave the porch, though she could have easily broken though the screen. And had she ever caught one of her larger “prey” I don’t know she would have know what to do with it. Still, she never stopped playing her part in “the hunt.”

Around our area of central Florida we have these small lizards we call skinks. These 3-6 inch critters love to hang out in the sunshine warming themselves and doing “skink things.” They were some of Keisha’s favorite prey, mostly because they often would get inside the porch where she could actually chase them. On those occasions when she did catch one, she would pester it and carry it around until she had finally killed it. At that point there was almost a sorrow, not that she had killed the animal, but more likely that the play was over. On many occasions I found the dried “lizard jerky” of a dead skink days after Keisha had finished with it.

One thing she didn’t tolerate was another cat in her territory, that is, anywhere she could see it. It was as though she went into a “Mr. Hyde’ persona. She became wild eyed and out of control, attacking anything that came within reach. Since she couldn’t get at the interloper, it was often her humans who felt the sharp end of her rage.

More often than I can count I’ve headed out to the back porch with protective footgear and a broom to both fend her off and herd her towards the door, into the house and away from the animal that had set her off. It usually took her 30 minutes or more to regain control at which time she would come around and apologize for her breech. I don’t think she so much felt sorry for the fear and oft times damage she caused us, it was more that she had been seen in a state other than her regal self, a terrible breach of protocol.

As disease ravaged Carol, and she begin to decline, Keisha became her constant companion. She always stayed close to her and never failed to wait outside the closed door to the room where Carol took care of her medical needs. At night, as Carol pulled her dialysis cart through the house to her bedroom, Keisha would follow along, stopping with her in the kitchen as she when through her nightly routine. Finally, just before entering the bedroom, Keisha would flop on the floor in front of the cart and refuse to let it pass until Carol petted her with her bare foot. She became totally compliant as her mistresses foot caressed her from nose to tip of tail, often sweeping the floor as she was pushed around in circles, soaking up the attention and love, and somehow knowing that Carol, too, needed to know her contribution to this ritual was needed.

When Carol passed away, Keisha became morose for a period of time. She would come into the bedroom and sit on the floor by Carol’s side of the bed, waiting to see if she would suddenly appear. She would jump on the bed and nuzzle around Carol’s pillow, smelling her and I’m sure wondering where she was.

After a while she became accustomed to the absence and moved on, even as I did, but the behaviors and routines she had established with Carol continued in many ways. When I remarried, Keisha, as she always did with unfamiliar humans, had a cat fit, unwilling to accept this new person in the house. To make matters worse, this person brought with her a four-legged friend, a dog no less. In time Keisha learned to tolerate Susie and the two made a game of antagonizing each other. She learned to tolerate Karen too, then to accept and finally to love and look to her for love.

When Susie died just over a year ago, Keisha seemed to go into a period of mourning. She walked the house looking for that wildly enthusiastic white ball of fur with the maddeningly wagging tail she loved to bat. She spent much of her time in Susie’s bed as though she was trying to stay close to her. And perhaps sensing Karen’s loss, turned more of her attention to her while Karen assuaged her grief by loving on this cat who had been so reluctant toward her at first.

Keisha began to greet her in the morning and follow her through the day, much as Susie. Always quiet, rarely meowing, Keisha seemed to find her voice and would often “meow” sometimes where you could even hear her but usually just mouthing the “words.” In the last six months her behavior patterns again changed.

She seemed to need us more. After kittenhood where she loved to sit with, or on, you, to be near, she became hotly independent. She didn’t require, nor want, to be held by or sit with anyone except on her terms. Then only for moments at a time. As she matured these last six months she began to want to be near us again. I’ll never forget my amazement the first time she jumped in my lap and made herself comfortable.

It became almost a routine where she would jump on the chair where one of us was sitting and settle either on us or beside us. Just needing to be near. Perhaps she sensed her time was short and needed the reassurance of her people. Or maybe she knew her people needed her.

As the disease disfigured her face and tail, while we fretted, she carried on unaware of what was happening to her. She tolerated a few procedures but we had no desire to subject her to the indignities of excess medical attention. The disease was not reversible. She pretty much remained her self up to the final few weeks when she spent more and more time sleeping in out-of-the way spots. Perhaps she was getting us used to not having her close by.

In the final week and a half she became uninterested in food and returned to the top of the cedar chest to rest in the sunlight overlooking the garden where Susie used to do the same. Then the last couple days she sequestered herself to the laundry room to spend her days sleeping on Susie’s bed. She would express an interest in food but was unable to eat.

On that final day it was as if she sensed she needed to leave us a picture of her in better times. She met Karen in the morning and walked with her to the kitchen like old times to wait on her meal. But she couldn’t eat it. When I got home from work she was on the cedar chest resting and when I sat by and began to pet her, her “motor” started right up as she purred her acceptance of my attention.

As I wrapped Keisha for that final trip to the vet, she didn’t struggle but submitted in quiet trust and acceptance. She remained alert and curious as we drove but never showed the nervousness or fear past trips to the vet had produced.

When it was over I mourned for her, for the loss of that fiercely independent yet needy friend. But I realized it wasn’t just Keisha’s passing I mourned, but once again that of Carol.

After all, it was Carol who had brought this black ball of fur into our home, who had defended her, cared for her and through her love crafted Keisha into the cat she became. Embodied in Keisha was that last tangible bit of Carol, and though I would like to think I had moved on and even remarried, having Keisha around was like having a bit of Carol around too.

So as I lowered her into the cold earth and covered her, I said good-bye to this little friend, this one that I had not wanted in my life, but forced her way in regardless. This one who could elicit so many divergent emotions yet always seem to stay above the fray. And as I said good-bye to her, I again said good-bye to Carol and thanked her for bringing Keisha into our lives.

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