This month, the I Grew Up in Highlands feature takes a personal turn as I was faced with the loss of a very loved cat, unexpectedly diagnosed with cancer. It prompted a trip down memory lane about the role of cats in my life, and I think it illustrates the cat’s evolving place in rural America.
Growing up, I don’t recall many house cats. Cats were around. We fed them. Many loved them, but they were enigmas floating in our periphery.
My first cat, Tigress, was an orange beauty who appeared on our doorstep, and we formed an instant bond. She followed me everywhere. She is part of my story. She was the epitome of ruthlessness and love, charming with me, a killing machine in the wild. Never a house cat, but every morning we would wake up to a persistent cry at our door, and when we opened it, she was there with a gift for me, usually the remains of her nightly hunt. She was the happiest and saddest part of my childhood. Her demise was traumatizing.
Skipping ahead to the early days of my marriage, my husband came home with a shiny black kitten from a construction site. Charles was also the epitome of sweetness and savagery. Coyly accepting affection one minute, attacking the next. He was an indoor-outdoor cat, coming and going at will, the king of his domain. We loved him madly. He was run over by a dump truck, and I think it was the equivalent of a silver stake through the heart; nothing less would have killed him.
Time travel again to my sweet Rosie, another gift from the cat distribution system. I was picking up the ashes of my cat Boo-Boo from the vet when they said, “We have kittens”- very young, sickly kittens they were nursing back to health. I fell in love with the tiny male. “Don’t you want the little girl, too?” “Heck no,” I said, “she’s the wildest thing I’ve ever seen.” No bigger than a mouse, she was climbing up my leg, meowing like a banshee.
You guessed it, when the kittens were healthy enough to come home, I adopted both. There was just something about Rosie, and she never stepped out of character. She was a pistol who lived life as an indoor princess. Independent, mischievous, entertaining, and a total cuddle bug when she wanted to be. Every morning, she leaped into bed when the alarm went off, snuggled close, and we exchanged daily affirmations. I told her what a special cat she was, and judging from her chatty responses, I think she was telling me the same. Rosie left tiny pawprints on my broken heart, but take it from me, if the universe drops a cat in your lap, scoop it up.
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