(this was originally written in December 2001)

Calvin

My mother left a disjointed, upsetting voicemail for me over this past weekend.  As I repeatedly listened to it, I tried to discern what my mother was saying.  She was sobbing uncontrollably and just hearing her cry made me very afraid.  At first, I thought something terrible must have happened to her husband or to her mother, my grandmother.  Upon my third or fourth listen, I finally heard what she was saying.  She had had to put Kitty to sleep last Friday.  Kitty who lived with and loved my mother unconditionally for over twenty years.  Kitty who was originally my cat when I was nine and when I was her constant tormentor.  I used to put make-up on Kitty when I was little, thinking that pink blush and iridescent blue eyeshadow really made her silky black fur even lovelier.

I knew how bad Mom felt.  I immediately called her and she answered the phone still sobbing.  She was devastated.  For fifteen minutes I tried to comfort her.  Without intending to sound like an amateur therapist, I encouraged her to call me whenever she wanted, no matter what time of day, if she just wanted to talk about how much she missed Kitty or wanted to share Kitty memories.  Tears welled up in my eyes as I talked to her.  I don’t think anyone likes to hear his/her mother cry and believe me, you don’t want to hear my mother cry.  Seriously, when she cries it seems as if all the devastation and sadness in the world lives in her small body.  So I began crying in earnest after Mom and I exchanged good-byes – she was on her way to the grocery store and needed to stop crying so she would “look decent”.  I shed tears for my mother’s pain but also for my own.  Our conversation dredged up memories I was not necessarily ready or wanting to deal with.  Not long ago I had lost my own beloved cat, Calvin.

My husband, Ted, and I currently have four cats.  We love them all.  But before we got our last two orange darlings, we had a cat named Calvin.  She died a year ago in September and honestly, not a day goes by that I do not think of her.  Of course, it would be difficult to forget her since her picture is my screen-saver on my iMac.  She is actually difficult to forget, or rather, easy to remember because she was such a unique cat.  I know, every pet owner thinks his/her pet is special, that there is no other pet like it in the world.  Well, in Calvin’s case, it’s true.

I purchased Calvin immediately after I moved into my first apartment, the summer before my junior year of college.  I wanted an orange cat.  I’ve always loved orange tabby cats.  I think in a weird, almost sick sense, I pretend they have red hair and therefore, look like they could be my offspring.  Believe me, I know that is messed up and I don’t really think they look like me and realize they are not children, but I love orange cats just the same.

Calvin was two years old when I adopted her.  She came from an abusive household where she had frequently been beaten.  Those who beat her were men, and it took two years for her to not flee if a man entered the room.  Initially, Calvin pretty much lived under my bed.  She was terrified of everyone.  No matter how much my roommates and I pet her and spoiled her with ice cream and yogurt, she remained distant.

My then boyfriend-now-husband Ted was determined to make Calvin at least like him.  Ted adores all animals and gets very upset when he thinks any animal is suffering. He so wanted Calvin to like him.  He grabbed her one day and gently rubbed her tummy.  She resisted, mostly because I think she felt she was supposed to resist.  Eventually, her incredibly loud purring filled our living room and she was never the same.  Although I am not totally convinced of this, Ted claims that he was responsible for Calvin becoming such a friendly cat.  At the very least, I must give him credit for changing her perceptions about men.

Calvin soon approached everyone, constantly chatting.  She did not have a regular meow.  She mirred.  What is mirring?  It’s a very special kind of talking that only Calvin could do.  When she talked, which was pretty much constantly, she would say, “Mir… mir… mirooow.”  Her feline voice was a combination of a cow’s moo and a duck’s quack.  To this day, my brother-in-law refers to Calvin as “the talking cat”.

It is difficult to explain how much Ted and I enjoyed hearing Calvin mir.  Her voice was so unique and because she used it so often, we were often convulsed in giggles around her.  A few weeks ago, Ted found a tape he had recorded of me singing and Calvin yelling at me.  She did not like it if anyone was singing.  We never totally figured out why although I am pretty sure it had to do with her assuming that when we were singing, we were actually crying in pain.  Apparently, our voices were not music to Calvin’s ears.  If Calvin was hiding somewhere in the apartment, I only needed to start singing and she would come up and yell in my face to keep quiet.  I like to think it was not because of my voice, but because she assumed I was upset and she just wanted to help.

Calvin was a bossy cat.  I am bossy, too, so it only makes sense.  She yelled at Ted if he didn’t poor a little glass of orange juice for her every morning.  Calvin adored orange juice.  And it had to be in a glass.  If Ted put the juice in a bowl, she’d scowl and chastise him for being so insensitive to her beverage needs.  She liked to drink out of glasses, delicately dipping her paw in and gently licking her paw clean.  She also loved Cheetohs and any kind of cheese, leading me to think she preferred orange food, you know, to match her knockout coat.  She would yell at us if we were not going to bed at our normal time – she was ready for bed, why weren’t we?  And heaven forbid if we took a shower (which, of course, was a daily occurrence).  Calvin would frantically pace around the perimeter of the tub, often jumping up on its edge and howling to let us know we were killing ourselves, drowning in uncontrollable water.

Calvin was an unusually empathetic cat.  She was with me through eight years of triumphs and tragedies, always comforting me when I cried.  I know, how could I have possibly been comforted by a cat?  I really felt like she understood when I was upset.  Whenever I cried, she would get very quiet and gently use her paw to wipe tears off my face.  I was having some unusual health problems in the fall and winter of 1997.  After a series of MRIs, two botched spinal taps, and a variety of other tests, I would have to wait until January 1998 to find out my diagnosis.  Ted and my best friend, Jill, were both out of the country when I received my diagnosis – Calvin alone was with me when I found out that I have Multiple Sclerosis.  She always made me feel better – we had an understanding, Calvin and I.  We silently agreed to love each other forever.  I did and still do.

Calvin was not a perfect cat, but I really loved her.  She was such a strange cat, unlike any my friends and family had ever heard of.  When Ted and I merged households and he brought his two cats, Calvin was not happy.  His cats basically ganged up on her, always having the upperhand because they still had claws while Calvin did not.  We had to set up baby doors to keep his cats away from her.  We stacked two baby doors on top of each other in the doorway between the front and back halves of our apartment.  It was a hassle at night when Ted or I would have to use the bathroom, which was located in the back half of the apartment behind the baby doors.  Not only was it difficult to maneuver the doors while half asleep, it was also a challenge to keep his cats from escaping.  Such fighting occurred through the baby doors!  And always late at night.  Calvin would taunt his cats behind the safety of the baby doors, letting them know that despite them being tougher, this was her house and they had best not forget it.

When Calvin would get really upset about something or terribly afraid, she would pee on the couch.  Fortunately, this was not a common occurrence otherwise we would have gotten rid of her – well, at least talked about it.  She was afraid of Ted’s cats and if they were in the living room, essentially trapping her there, she would get upset and lose control of her bladder.  This behavior didn’t last long, thankfully, and because of my mother’s excellent cleaning tips, our apartment never smelled like a litterbox.  I wouldn’t have been able to stand such a smell.

Calvin loved “helping” Ted and me when we were working on our computers.  She would jump up onto our desks, slinking back and forth in front of the keyboard, insisting we pay attention to her.  Sometimes it was distracting and we would repeatedly take her off of our desks, only to have her jump up again, demanding we pet her.  Some might find that annoying but she was such a charismatic, funny cat, we couldn’t possibly stay annoyed or angry for too long.

For at least seven of those eight years we had together, Calvin was a happy, healthy cat.  I occasionally took her for granted, not knowing that our time together would be cut short.  I anticipated having her forever or at least until I was in my late thirties.  I am not yet thirty so you can see how I missed out on having at least five or six more years with her.

In February 2000, everything changed.  One night, I was home alone with the cats and Calvin suddenly began moaning horribly, clearly in a great deal of pain.  She vomited thick clear bile indicating there was no food in her stomach.  I didn’t hesitate.  I rushed her to the emergency animal clinic, desperately hoping everything would be okay.  They kept her there overnight, giving her I.V. fluids to relieve her dehydration.  They weren’t totally sure what was wrong with her and encouraged me to take her to our regular vet.  I did so the next day.

Calvin hated going to the vet.  She really was intuitive.  Even if I hadn’t brought out the cat carrier, she instinctively knew I would be taking her to the vet and would hide.  She was weak from her stay at the emergency clinic and barely fought back when I put her in her carrier.  I think she knew I was trying to bring her to someone who might be able to help her.

Our regular veterinarian certainly tried to help Calvin.  Over the next six months, Calvin underwent seemingly millions of tests.  She had a mass in her stomach that the vet thought might go away with penicillin injections.  We had to give Calvin a penicillin shot every other day for months.  She hated the shots and we hated giving them to her because we didn’t want to cause her any pain.

We weighed her every day because her weight was dropping incredibly fast.  At the beginning of February, Calvin weighed twelve pounds.  By the end of March, she was down to seven pounds.  Five pounds may not sound like a lot of weight to lose but think of it in human terms.  What sort of shock would your body go through if you lost almost half of your body weight in two months?  I began preparing any kind of food she wanted.  She didn’t want any cat food, dry or canned, no matter what brand I bought for her.  I would fry little pieces of bacon for her or open a can of tuna, give her bowls of ice cream or milk, anything just to make her eat.  Initially she was kind of excited about getting such special foods, but she just wouldn’t eat.  We had to get a syringe and pin her down to shoot liquid food down her throat.  Our vet told us to do this.  I cried almost every time we did this, hating myself for forcing Calvin to eat.  I was so desperate to have her eat something!

We pretty much began taking Calvin to the vet every two weeks for a variety of tests.  She underwent ultrasounds, biopsies, x-rays, you name it.  We were doing everything we could to make her better.  I became so frustrated and angry and upset because there wasn’t anything I could do to help her.  She had been so good at comforting me when I was in distress and I couldn’t return the favor.  I pet her and loved her and tried to feed her but nothing was working.

The mass in her stomach continued to grow.  Our vet, having done a biopsy, believed the mass to be benign.  The mass was obstructing her stomach, however, which is why she never wanted to eat.  Imagine having your stomach stapled and trying to force way too much food down your throat, causing you great pain.  I think that is how Calvin felt.

Keep in mind that I was in graduate school during this time so we were living on one income.  No way could we afford all of our vet bills.  We used credit cards.  I didn’t care if we ended up in debt; I wanted to save Calvin.  When all was said and done, we invested at least $3,000, trying to help my beloved Calvin.  The money issues made things tense between Ted and me.  We were so torn.  We wanted to help Calvin yet were afraid of incurring such debt.  Ted and I were exhausted, struggling to have somewhat normal lives in spite of constantly caring for Calvin.

Ted’s cats were a bit neglected during all of this.  They never wanted for food, water or clean litter.  We were diligent about that and always have been.  But we didn’t extend much affection their way.  I didn’t because I was angry with them for ganging up on Calvin and physically hurting her from time to time.  That was irrational – they’re just cats and they were acting like cats.  They associated me with Calvin and withheld their affection, too.  We were so busy caring for Calvin that we lost interest in anything else.  My coursework never suffered as I simply would not let that happen.  But I was crying uncontrollably all of the time, often distracted with thoughts of how I might get Calvin to eat something, anything.

I know that she was “just a cat” as one of my insensitive classmates commented. She was a member of my family.  I could not have possibly loved her more than I did.  She was always pasted to my ankles, wanting to be with me no matter what I was doing.  It’s hard not to love that kind of constant affection and attention.

By the time September rolled around, Calvin weighed just under six pounds.  She was so skinny and you could see her ribs.  It hurt just looking at her.  She rarely purred anymore and hardly talked at all.  I missed her mirring and so did Ted.

She began vomiting clear bile all the time and we took her to the emergency animal clinic again.  The attending vet said that she needed surgery.  He said he would open her up and if he could, he would get rid of the stomach mass.  If she had cancer, he wouldn’t wake her up, essentially putting her to sleep.  We no longer had any choice.  All other options hadn’t worked and we needed to do something.

It was awful taking Calvin out to Burnsville to have surgery.  The vet was very kind.  He was going to perform the surgery on September 12^th.  We brought her there on the 11^th.  He felt she was too sickly and sad to stay at the hospital overnight alone so he was going to take her home with him until the following morning.  He kindly left us alone with her for as long as we wanted, saying preemptive good-byes in case she had cancer.

I can’t remember the last time I cried so hard.  I held her and repeatedly told her I loved her and how she was the best kitty and how there would never be another kitty like her.  Ever.  I told her I would save her if I could but I didn’t know how to help her anymore.  And then, Calvin did a remarkable thing that I will never ever forget.  Our now silenced kitty who hadn’t mirred or purred in months walked over to me and gently rubbed her head against my hand.  She looked into my eyes and started to quietly mir and purr.  I really do believe she was letting me know it was okay and that she was grateful for all we had done for her.  She knew we couldn’t help her and forgave us for that.  In her own way, Calvin was telling me goodbye.  After about 45 horrible minutes of

good-byes, we left Calvin in the hands of the vet.  And I, who had long given up on religion, began to pray.  I promised God I would do anything if He would just save my precious kitty.

The next morning, I anxiously waited by the phone for any news about Calvin.  Around 10:10am I could wait no longer and called the vet.  He was just starting surgery.  He got on the phone after he had made the initial incision and said that her entire stomach lining was shot full of cancer.  He had to put her to sleep.  We could pick up her body that afternoon.

Calling Ted at work almost killed me.  He immediately raced home, bawling all the way.  I don’t think he even realized how much he also loved Calvin and how much it was going to hurt to lose her.  We sat on the couch, crying our eyes out.  I gathered the strength to jump in the shower and prepared to go get Calvin.

We cried the whole way out to Burnsville.  On our way, we stopped and bought a box in which to bury her.  We had brought her favorite towel she had liked sleeping on plus a baby blanket and pillow my grandmother had made for me.  It was with these coveted gifts I wanted to bury Calvin.  The vet had her wrapped in a towel and in a box.  The vet’s assistants teared up when they saw me.  They knew that my heart was absolutely shattered.

We drove out to Minnetonka to bury Calvin in my mother-in-law’s backyard.  We had no yard of our own so this was the next best thing.  When we got to Minnetonka, we unwrapped Calvin’s body so we could see her one last time.  We wrapped her in the baby blanket and laid her on the towel, propping her head on the baby pillow.  We sealed the box and Ted began digging her grave.  The whole twenty minutes he dug, I stood by holding Calvin’s “casket”.  I couldn’t bear to set her down for even a minute.  We buried her, telling her we loved her and would never forget her.  And then we silently sniffled the whole way home.

I realize that this piece had hints of humor but ultimately turned solemn.  We are not always solemn when we remember Calvin.  More often than not, we recount stories of her quirks and laugh at how bossy she was.  This past September 12^th, in spite of the enormous tragedies that befell our country on the 11^th, we remembered to raise a toast to Calvin, letting her know we still think of her and always will.

I often joke about our orange little boy cats, about how we had to get two cats to replace our one wonderful Calvin.  Lenny and Toast, our boys, delight me every day.  I am so glad to have them.  I love them a lot and would do anything for them.  But my heart forever holds a place for Calvin.  She was my family and I really loved her.

So I do understand my mother’s pain over her loss of Kitty.  I think her pain might be even greater because she had Kitty for a third of her life, for over twenty years.  I’m going to call my mother tonight to see how she is doing.  When I spoke to her this past weekend, she begged me to never get her another pet because she can’t go through this pain again.  It was like losing her child.  I understand.  I will continue to adopt cats, knowing that eventually I will feel pain upon losing them.  I do think the joy Calvin brought to my life greatly outweighs the pain I felt and continue to feel upon her death.  I miss her every day, but am grateful for the time we shared together.  I’m pretty sure wherever she is now she is mirring incessantly and bossing everyone around.  And knowing that, I am happy.