A Last Great Adventure

In the summer of 2002, I talked my sister into going over to the local no kill animal shelter and adopting two kittens. We had just moved out on our own and needed pets. Never mind the huge responsibility this then twenty year old was undertaking. My family had always had cats—I knew how to feed them, fill their water bowls, and clean their litter. No big deal.

When we arrived at the shelter, we were introduced to a crowded room of cats.  Kittens, adolescents, mamas, and a few Toms. This little portable building was overrun with them, their litter boxes, and their toys. It was sad, really, the amount of animals, all waiting for their forever homes.

My sister wanted a black kitten like our Boo kitty, our parents’ cat, but I eventually talked her into a brother-sister pair. The male was a yellow short hair tabby with a bit of a wild streak; the female, a shy, long haired tortie. We named them Doodle and Snickers (or Snickers and Doodle after the Snickerdoodle cookie).  And, no sooner did we get these little furballs home, my sister rescued another frightened, cornered kitten, so we saved her, named her Tiger because of her gray tiger stripes, and threw her into the mix. The more, the merrier, right?

My memories of these kittens as they grew, and we with them, are plentiful. Doodle’s eyes would turn an evil red and he’d chase and terrorize the other two; Snickers had a broken purr, almost as if it took everything she had to produce a tiny, muffled noise when she was content; Tiger would groom anything in sight, but she preferred human hair. She’d start sweetly and, then, when you were least expecting it, she’d attack you with claws out, digging all four paws into your scalp; Doodle would climb completely out of the litter box to do his business, only his little booty and two hind legs staying inside; Snickers had the sweetest personality and liked to curl up beside you, bury her cold nose into your arm or leg, and kneed away until she fell asleep; and Tiger would eat just about anything you’d put before her, her scrapper instincts making her the thickest of the bunch—at least until Doodle grew into his long, lean body.

When I got married and moved to Vegas, I knew my cat—Snickers—couldn’t make the drive. She was a nervous, anxiety-ridden cat who panicked on a ten minute trip to the vet. I knew she’d never be the same if I forced her in a carrier for eighteen hours. So she stayed with my sis in Texas as I began a new chapter of my life a thousand miles away.

Of course, our animal family grew while we were in Vegas: we added a collie, Daisy, and a second long haired tortie. KitKat. And two years later, we added a golden retriever/lab mix, Chloe. We didn’t forget Snickers, but I never considered what two dogs and another rather prissy cat would do to her emotional well being. When we finally moved home, she was entering her golden years, though she tried to get along with the others. She tolerated Chloe, who was scared to death of her; she stayed away from KitKat; and she drove Daisy, who instinctively needed to herd her, crazy.

Eventually, though, the anxiety got the best of Snickers, and she started a nervous, costly habit: she began peeing on everything. The leather couches, the bathroom rugs, the carpet. We tried everything possible to break her of the habit: numerous new potties; new food; new litter; various sprays; antibiotics. Nothing worked. And then she started not only peeing but pooping on everything, too. The vet finally told us that this might be a problem with no cure.

Luckily, we have a garage, so we were able to relocate Snickers. In the garage, she had her own potty, her own food, her own water, and an entire room to herself in which to roam. At first, I felt guilty. She was always such a people cat—or should I say person (singular) cat. It broke my heart to have her outside alone. But… really… what can you do when the cat wants to urinate and defecate on everything?

Sure enough, the problem eventually cleared up. And Snickers was happy. Really happy. She didn’t have to fight two dogs and another always hungry cat for her food. She got to chase field mice that happened, unsuspecting, into the garage and play with them when she caught them. And the best part of the whole arrangement: she got to play outside on a regular basis. I think, in fact, that she timed sneaking out of the open garage door just right, so she regularly got to spend the entire night outside unbeknownst to us (that is, of course, until the next morning when we found her crying and scratching at the back door).

And, so, life continued. I would see her, basking in the sunlight that poured in through the broken blinds covering the garage window. She’d give me a little meow occasionally and watch as the girls and I hurried to and fro, always running late or forgetting something and having to go back into the house. When I’d see her, looking so content, I’d remember when she was a kitten and would curl up at my side, bury her face in my leg, and purr that broken purr. And I’d feel a bit nostalgic, wishing she could join us in the house and we could curl up, four of us now in the big bed instead of just two, and fall asleep.

Just the other day as we were hurrying out the door to work, I caught sight of her atop a box. She had been in the same place all morning, as I’d hurried in and out of the garage, doing little odd tasks that required me to venture outside. She looked at me as we hurried by and let out a tiny little meow, and I told her I’d pet her later; we were late and there just wasn’t time.

I didn’t think about my promise again. That was three days ago.

Tonight, my husband came into the living room while I was rocking the baby to sleep. Something about the look on his face was odd; I couldn’t have guessed what. And then he told me he was pretty sure Snickers was gone. I don’t know what I thought at first. Had she run away? Had she left on her own, set out on some grand adventure? And then I realized… oh, he means she died.

He hadn’t found her. But that was what was so odd about it all. Snickers was always there, always hanging out. All you had to do was call for her and she’d come running. But she wasn’t on the front or back porch where she liked to roll on the cool concrete. She wasn’t on her box, the box where she always slept, in the garage. He even walked through the field next to the house with a flashlight, afraid she had wandered away from the house to die in peace. But it was too dark to see much, so he told me he’d look again tomorrow.

I can’t remember the last time I sat down next to her and let her bury her little cold nose into my arm. I can’t remember the last time I pet her. Really pet her. Not just a quick nudge as I walked by. And it makes me feel so guilty. I broke my promise to her. And now I just don’t know that I was the best kitty mama I could have been in the last years of her life.

Each of my furry girls got extra attention tonight. I rubbed Chloe’s ears as she slept on the couch; I scratched Daisy’s booty (her favorite) for as long as I could; and I even pet KitKat until she swatted at me, telling me she’d had quite enough of that, thank-you-very-much. And I cried as I told them all how much I love them… and I know they understood.

So, Snickers, wherever you are tonight, I hope I gave you and your little broken purr a good life, a better life than you would have had growing old in that little room with all those other cats.

I hope you felt like the queen of that garage, free to come and go as you pleased, to chase mice and play with bugs, to bask in the sun and roll on the cool concrete.

I hope that little meow that afternoon when I was late for work and my hands were full with car seats and backpacks, juice cups and doll babies—I hope that meow was your way of saying, “Mama, I’m okay. I’ve had a great life, and I know you love me.”