A Tale of Two Kitties

Olivia (Skeezix) in the front, Helena (Catbert) in the back.

Yesterday was the first day in over a decade that we haven’t had two cats in the house. Our beloved Helena (a.k.a. Catbert), who’d been with us over 14 years, was humanely euthanized Monday morning. Her younger “sister,” Olivia (a.k.a. Skeezix) had just passed her 10-year adoption anniversary. This is their story. (If you just heard the “Law and Order” “dun dun” in your head, that’s fine. If not, that’s okay, too.) Or, rather, it’s a short essay on what I’ve learned (or at least had clarified and re-affirmed) by the two fur babies. 

The two cats could hardly be less similar. Skeezix is much more outgoing, more playful; Catbert was quieter, less demonstrative. Catbert showed affection with head bonks, Skeezix by rubbing against our legs.  Catbert loved all things paper; Skeezix prefers leather… and clean laundry. Catbert was pretty much terrified of me when we first got her. We know she had been abused prior to our adopting her at age 4 months or so, we suspect by the man in the family. What is fact as opposed to informed conjecture is that our vet told us that she literally had a broken back when we got her. It’s no wonder she seldom acted like a kitten. She was mature before her time; she had to be. But whereas she was always a little shy, and still occasionally flinched almost imperceptibly when I reached to pet her, she became “my” cat. She still loved Sue, but she adored me; her litter-mate, Hermia (Squiddy), was the other way ‘round, as is Skeezix. 

In many ways, that makes sense. Our personalities meshed: Helena seemed both introspective and introverted, and always carried an aura of intellectuality with her. Even at the end, when she wasn’t eating, when she did emerge from her lair under the bed in the spare bedroom, she was purposeful. She strode past us on the way to her water dish, then studiously avoided us on her return trip, choosing the long way around through the front room rather than coming through the living room again. She had to have been uncomfortable, and was likely in actual pain, but she’d have had us believe nothing was wrong. That stoicism was, of course, simultaneously admirable and self-defeating… not that the tumor that ultimately led to our horrible but inevitable and humane decision to put her to sleep would have been any more or less aggressive had her behavior been different. 

What I will remember most about her, though, is that she was an incredibly loving cat, but always on her terms. I don’t think she ever laid down on my lap. She curled up next to me with her head on my leg; she sat behind me and leaned her head over my shoulder; she stood or sat on my lap for up to 20 minutes at a time. But that was it: a lap cat was something she wasn’t. Similarly, she endured a lot from her perkier younger sister, but for some reason Olivia always wanted to sit on her head. That did not go over well. And even when age, health, and ultimately size worked against her, Catbert would have been the odds-on favorite to emerge victorious had the two ever really fought. There’s sociability, but there are limits. And a hiss, firmly and forthrightly delivered, is sufficient for all but the most simple-minded to take the hint. Confidence, individuality, self-sufficiency, boundaries: good lessons, all. 

But this blog piece may be more about Skeezix than her big sister. She came to us as a real kitten—maybe 10 weeks or so—after Hermia passed away far too young (she’d had only about half a kidney). Her mother belonged to a friend, so whereas we knew she hadn’t been pampered, we also knew she’d received appropriate amounts of food, water, and TLC. Helena, who weighed 17 pounds to Olivia’s two or three when we got her, certainly ruled the roost, but there was never any real tension between them, head-sitting incidents notwithstanding. During Catbert’s last days, we couldn’t get her to eat. She’d drink water, but anything with any caloric content was problematic. For a fortnight or more, we’d try anything we could think of, from special cat food to chicken broth to melted butter (her favorite of all foods in healthier times). Sometimes we’d make a little progress. Usually we wouldn’t. 

At the cats’ regular feeding time in the evening, they both used to trot out to the kitchen to begin their repast. But when Helena started getting really sick, she often wouldn’t come at all. And Olivia would sniff at her bowl and walk away. We got to the point where we’d only put down a single can of cat food for the two of them—they’d previously had a can apiece. And only half of that would be eaten. More interestingly, the special foods—the treats, in other words—were untouched. We began to worry that Olivia’s appetite was off, too. Was it something in the house? Our downstairs neighbor in Iowa was an authority on radon… could it be something like that? Olivia seemed healthy and happy, and was her normal effervescent self throughout, but there was that worry… 

And then, we took Helena to the vet Monday and heard the prognosis. The combination of Helena’s behavior, the fact that she didn’t return with us, and our sadness were clearly enough to signal to Olivia that Helena would never be coming home. Olivia rubbed up against our legs, then disappeared. When the cat food can opened at dinner-time, however, she appeared as if from nowhere. And whereas she’d initially walked away from her food for over a fortnight, Monday night she dove right in. By morning, the bowl was empty. Same thing happened last night.

In other words, seeing her sister’s lack of appetite, Olivia made sure that her sister had had first shot at anything she might want. It was more important to her that Helena eat than that she herself get the choicest food. She didn’t make a big deal of it; she just did it. And then, when it became clear that Catbert wasn’t going to be wanting any food, she calmly reverted to her normal behavior. 

It is a sad but ultimately ennobling fact for our species: our pets have better ethics than we do.