Arthur Remembered -- A Memorial to my Little Old Lady Cat

We weren't looking for a new cat. She came to us, quite by accident, and she stayed with us because of her gentle, quiet manner She was a small white cat, never weighing more than seven pounds, although she had a good appetite. Her white coat was stunning in the sun and her eyes were a deep, azure blue. (Strangely enough, her hearing was quite good, which is uncommon with blue-eyed white cats.) She was petite, dainty and Hell on Wheels. That was my Arthur.

Some folks may wonder why a petite female cat would bear a name like "Arthur". That's a story I relate with a bit of shame (but not much). A friend of mine had bought a pretty white kitten at a pet store, by the name of "Chablis". A few days later she broke out in hives and learned that she was seriously allergic to the cat. I agreed to bring the cat home to "find a good home for her". I knew Asa would tell me we didn't need another cat, and particularly when he found it was a female. I practiced a bit of deception when I brought her home. "See the beautiful little kitten that Barbara can't keep. His name is 'Chablis' but I think that's a sissy name for a boy cat." Of course, within a few days, the "boy" kitten was well ensconsed in our household, and we agreed to rename "him" Arthur, after the Dudley Moore movie of the time. A few weeks later, feeling a bit guilty at my deception, I commented that Arthur might be a girl kitty. That's when Asa took another look and proclaimed his famous "balls is balls" statement. Later yet, of course, he revised his earlier opinion, but the name had stuck, so "Arthur," she forever remained.

Arthur and Whiskers, our rescued "Maine Coon"

Although Arthur was spayed at an early age, she loved to mother young kittens, which we were in ready supply of, thanks to our kids. She would gently wash them, play with them and sleep curled up with them...until the day arrived when they reached adolescence. On that day, the kitten whom had yesterday been groomed and loved, today was being spat upon and batted around by the same cat. Our veterinarian told us that Arthur was acting in a natural way, to let these youngsters know that now was the time to leave the nest.

Unfortunately for Arthur, few of them left the nest, and some of them remembered this un-motherly treatment and grew up to reciprocate in like fashion. Bubba was the worst offender in this revenge-seeking.

He made a game of it; he would wait until Arthur was eating, or peacefully grooming herself, then would creep up behind her and assume an arched back, tail bushed, menancing stance. There must have been some undercurrent of communication that we weren't privy to, because Arthur would immediately sense his presence, and assume her own position, with much hissing and spitting. Usually, Bubba would hold his stance for a few moments, but almost always, would slink away with a grumpy look on his face. Occasionally, they would really get into it with a flurry of swats exchanged. Arthur could summon some blood-curdling screams, when pressed. Recently, probably because of the cancer on her nose, she started making a little "grrrrrr..wooooof!" sound that was particularly awe-inspiring.

For the most part, Arthur was a loner, moreso in later years. She and Shannon were "buds" of a sort, if eating together counts. Every morning, I would awake to the sounds of Arthur in my doorway, requesting breakfast.

Shannon and Arthur sharing dinner

I noticed after awhile, that the later I slept, the further she would venture into the bedroom (which was usually off-bounds because Bubba also slept there.) On cold mornings when I slept in until 7:00, Arthur would be a good five feet into the room, driven by her always-good appetite. Past her, I could always see Shannon, waiting patiently, a good 4 yards away.

The two of them struck a pact to eat only food out of the can less than 15 minutes. As a result, I spent most of my day, running up and down the stairs between my office and the kitchen, giving them teaspoons of fresh food every couple of hours. Occasionally, I would catch them exchanging a couple of grooming licks, or would find them curled up together.

Arthur was not a particularly people-oriented cat. She would cringe if I came up on her suddenly, or dropped something on the counter. One would think she had been treated horribly by humans, although she had never received anything but kindness and love since we adopted her. Yet, at odd moments, while watching TV or reading, I would suddenly become conscious of a soft, warm purring body on my lap. She would steal aboard so quietly that I didn't even notice her until I found myself petting her. At times, she would even brave the presence of Bubba, who was usually curled up beside Asa.

At times she would become kittenish, even at the ripe old age of 18, batting a leaf around on our deck or playing with a bit of fluff she found under the sofa. It was particularly appealing to watch as she was normally such a serious little thing.

The last two months have been too painful to relate here, only that Arthur's time had come. I'm told now that cancer on the ears and nose is quite prevalent in white cats. This one was particularly virulent, and Arthur's last weeks were miserable, for her, and for us, having to watch her suffer. We finally made the decision to give her a dignified release from her pain and suffering. I fed her a final meal of her favorite foods, a saucer of milk, and held her, and brushed her coat. Then, Asa took her to the veterinarian, who agreed with our decision. Arthur went to the Rainbow Bridge on November 20th, 1997, to wait there for us. Asa returned alone half an hour later and we wept together. Her time had come, but it's still hard to accept that she is gone. She shared 18 years with us, and it seemed like she would always be there. I miss my little old lady, more than I ever imagined, and on some mornings, I still awaken to the shadow of a little white cat in my doorway.

A WRITER'S CAT

I remember the day a favorite cat died.
At dawn I carried him into the garden and laid him on a bed of mint,
Still breathing.
The eyes I had known for almost thirteen years followed me about.
When the post arrived, he gave a short purr.

It had been his habit since a kitten.
It was his last link with my world of manuscripts and books.
Our parting would be soon.
Later when I wrapped him in an old cardigan
I thought of Anatole France and St. Mael's
baptism of the penguins
And how St. Catherine had said:
"Give them souls -- but tiny ones."

I will settle for that
For my cat.

By Neville Baybrooke