In early 2006 our friend, Richella, was admitted into the county hospital in Houston Texas. Barry and I had doubts about whether she would come out again, and Richella had six cats in her home. So, after visiting, we went to her house to bring her cats home with us, where we already had two. (There were more cats at our home; they just weren’t inside the house.)
Of the six cats, we found a home in Dallas for two. Then Fitzgerald, the first of Richella’s hoard, passed away about a month before she did. This left us with three of her cats, three to remember Richella by.
Clarice, the black cat, was always a bit of a loner in the group. Butterbean, an orange tabby, was outgoing and adventurous, while Charlotte was the mother figure in the group. (Charlotte was a tiny little kitty who ballooned into a ball almost overnight. Her girth was astounding on such a small body.)
Charlotte was the gentle force that would saunter into the room like a plump Leto—Goddess of Motherhood, and nibble on cat food. Her presence went far to maintain peace in the home, between the cats and the people. She would lie on the back of the sofa looking out the window, and the room felt serene.
While Butterbean was busy trying to figure out how to get on top of the kitchen cabinets, Charlotte was working to tear open the corner of an unopened bag of cat food (intended for the cats outside, not her) to let few kibbles fall out so she could have a snack.
We lost Charlotte first, in 2017. The seven feline angels came to take her home.
Our daredevil Butterbean, the rare female orange tabby, passed away only last year. She had broken her leg during one of her shenanigans, and had lost the fortitude to pursue the mischief that was her pleasure in life. She finally gave in to the eternal rest that awaits all cats, but the ceramic bowl she slept in on top of the cabinets is still there.
This left Clarice, the quirky black cat who was vocal, rather stand-offish and had a strange fascination with one friend’s armpits. She was chatty. There’s something endearing about a cat who will answer you when you ask her a question. She could tell from Barry’s voice if he was talking to his mother on the phone, and she went by to say hi. Mother and cat would chat a bit, and then Clarice would let Barry have the phone back.
After her friends left, she became quite demanding of our attention. I wondered if she was lonely, but there was another cat in the house, Richella, named in honor of our friend. The two didn’t interact much. Richella is rather timid, so Clarice pushed her way to the front when we were on the sofa. Barry lying on the sofa became Clarice’s favorite napping spot.
Around five years ago Clarice was diagnosed with Diabetes. Barry, having owned cats for years, and being the best caretaker of animals I’ve ever seen, noticed the signs and took her in quickly. We began a regimen of insulin shots twice a day. She began to get canned food when it was time for her shot, so she never really noticed the shot. She reminded us once, early on, when we’d forgotten about the shot, because we had also forgotten about her Fancy Feast. She peeked in the doorway with a heartbreaking and questioning Meow, as if to say, “I was special before. You gave me canned food twice a day. Am I still special? Do you still love me?” All of that was expressed in a single, pitiful mew as she stood in the door of the living room, looking at us.
When we went out of town, we had to have somebody to give her shots. We could have taken her into the vet’s office to board her, but that would be a little traumatic. (She had a special sticker on her file at the vet, a sticker reserved for headstrong kitties who didn’t put up with the vets’ invasive nonsense.) We preferred to have somebody come over if possible. The perfect cat-sitter appeared, in the person of our friend’s son. He was barely a teenager when he learned to give her an insulin shot, and he took care of her when we were out of town from that day forward. We paid him and he came to give food, change water, clean cat boxes, but mostly to give Clarice her shot.
And she played him like a violin. We’d get home and she’d be perched on a pillow on the bed, waiting for her food to be brought to her. Barry and I looked at each other and laughed. According to the kid’s mom, he had said Clarice was tired and looked sick, so he took the food to her and stayed there with her while she ate. He was setting the bar a little high for day-to-day life. But she loved him, and he loved her.
The past couple of months we noticed that she had been slowing down. At first it seemed like her insulin was off, because when we got her a new prescription she’d perk up. But never to where she had been last year. She was getting old. Probably she was 18, though we can’t be sure. All we knew was that age was catching up with her.
Like I’ve noticed with other cats, as she slowed down, she increasingly wanted to be outside. She’d find a cool place in the shade, or on damp earth. Even when she could barely walk, as soon as I got home from work she’d make her way to the front door and stand there waiting. She was no longer able to chat with us like before, but she let us know the important things. The most important of all was her time outside. Food and water were secondary.
Food and water were a little higher on our list of priorities, though. We’d add water to the canned food to make more gravy, because gravy was the majority of what she consumed. And Barry, being Barry, began adding ice to her water bowl so that she’d drink. Once that began, there was not stopping it. Ever. She wouldn’t look at water unless it had ice cubes floating in it.
At one point we couldn’t convince her to eat, not even the gravy we made her from the canned food. I had been making myself a tuna salad, so I poured the water from the can into a bowl for her, which she cleaned up completely. I let Barry know and he, of course, stopped to pick up some tuna on the way home from work.
One weekend, she could barely be convinced to drink even her ice water. She was wobbly on her feet, so we’d take her outside to her cool spot and lay her on the damp earth. (Barry had begun to make sure it was always damp for her.) Once the temperature got too high (Central Texas in August), we’d bring her in. She’d wobble to the door and wait, but eventually she’d go back to her cubby hole in the bookcase, between paperbacks.
Sunday when I brought her inside she wasn’t able to even get up and wobble on her own. I let Barry know, and then I went to the studio to give him space. A few hours later I went back inside and her little body was covered with a t-shirt shroud. I found Barry on the sofa, doing something on his phone. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him cry; he was crying now. I did what I could to comfort him, and then I left again to give him space. He began to stress-clean. I texted a group of artist friends and a few people in his family.
There’s something endearing about a cat who will answer you when you ask her a question.
This was hard on him, more so than in the past. Clarice was the last of Richella’s cats. Fourteen years after losing a dear friend, without ever having cried for her, he cried now for both of them. He was talking with another friend in California and they both agreed that it was like losing Richella all over again. The last living vestige had crossed the rainbow bridge. There was nothing left of our friend for Barry to care for and nurse.
Later that day he asked me to take him for a ride in the country. That was a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Back roads with crops on each side, or narrow stretches of barely-paved roads, with trees overhanging from both sides creating green tunnels, these are solace for the soul. With the Mamma Mia soundtrack playing on loop, we drove around through places we hadn’t been before. We passed the area where the Sherwood Forest Faire is held, eventually making our way to Bastrop where we stopped at a roadhouse for a burger.
We got home and he was ready. He had the cross charm, he had his holy water, he was ready for the burial. We had dug the hole earlier, in the very dry, very hard ground (not like a previous burial), now we just had to find a suitable shroud in which to lay her to rest. (She never really liked that t-shirt.) Barry found an old towel that she would have loved.
I did what I could, but mostly it was moral support. Barry carried her to the kitty cemetery. We made a procession of it, though without any other cats along. Clarice had been a good cat, giving as much affection as she ask for. This is how love is. There are other cats and dogs to fill our hearts, but Clarice will always have a special place for us.
With her body lying peacefully in the open grave we’d dug, wrapped in her towel with her cross, and having been blessed with holy water, we covered her. She could rest with the other cats who have come before her to this blessed cemetery in the field behind the house. And Barry could begin to move forward, having laid Clarice properly to sleep.
Good-bye sweet girl.
