17 November 2022
Bon voyage, mon pauvre petit chat.
Spooky Pukey Tichelle LaBelle James Earl Carter Vygudwyf Greigh died this afternoon sometime around 5pm West Texas time. Probably born in or around Greater Cincinnatistan 12 to 18 years ago, I first encountered her as a mature cat through the agency of my neighbor Vygudwyf Rokhy, who’d taken to subsidizing the feline community in our neighborhood. Her clientele generally equilibrated around three to six regulars over the years, and most would come and go within a matter of months. This one mild-mannered tortoise shell, though, seemed to have achieved a bit of seniority, not so much through the aggression displayed by others, but her tenacity and calm patience. Rokhy and I had both noted her comparative sweetness a couple of times. We had also deduced, from her coat, from the lack of interest in her from potent Toms, and her generally docile (if over-cautious) nature, that she’d been acculturated to people, spayed, and probably vaccinated. Our working theory was that she’d recently moved and gotten lost, or that maybe she’d been abused and gotten fed up.
One snowy November morning, as I was preparing for bed (having earlier completed my graveyard shift at the local QuikkStopp, I heard a great ruckus at the back. I staggered out to encounter three police officers breaking into Rokhy’s half of the house (we shared a duplex.) “Can I… help you?” I enquired.
“When did you last see your neighbor, sir?”
“”Um… two, three days ago? I’m not sure. We’re cordial, but we’re not close.”
They had received word from Rokhy’s daughter and employer both that they’d had no contact for three days, so now it was time for them to break in. Realizing that they had no desire to have me in their way as they entered a possibly sensitive scene, I bid them the best and went back to bed as they (I learned later) carted out Rokhy’s body, and made arrangements for York, the faithful German Shepherd who patiently waited for Rokhy at the foot of her bed.
That evening, as I prepared for work, I noticed the tortoise shell across the backyard keeping her eye on Rokhy’s back door, awaiting her customary dole. I realized then that she’d likely been waiting the last three or four days in the snow. It was more than I could bear, so I set out one of Milli‘s dishes on our back deck, which adjoined Rokhy’s. I no sooner stepped back in than Tichelle (as I’d later come to call her) sprinted across the back yard to the offering. Within a day I had coaxed her into the kitchen. Milli did not approve but she had lots of dishes and the rest of the house besides and no one ever went hungry. Soon they’d established a truce allowing them both access to the dining and gravel facilities in the tiled kitchen and laundry rooms, plus equal access to the great outdoors. In addition to their common privileges, Tiche had her own two-square-foot throw rug in the kitchen while Milli had the rest of the house. And she enforced it, though she was half Tiche’s weight.
Later, Milli and Tiche and I quit the little duplex and moved into the Northern Exclave, whereupon Milli saw her last days (see Milli Kalikimaka). Years after that, Tiche and I relocated from Greater Cincinnatistan to West Texas (see Tichelle’s Bogus Journey).
Tichelle’s appetite dropped off considerably about a month ago, and she’s spent most of her time sleeping, but otherwise not complaining. I tempted her for a while with more expensive savory cat treats, and she showed a little interest in the novelty, but soon that lost its appeal as well. Last night I heard her moving under the bed and when I awoke, she was still there, sleeping. I’d kneel down throughout the day to check on her and scritch her chin or ears and she’d purr softly, and I’d check her again in an hour or so. Finally, a little after five in the afternoon, I found her dead. Her feline dignity remained intact to the last and she rarely missed her cat box, only hanging her ass over the newspapers a couple of times in the last few weeks.
She was far from my favorite among cats, being only basically cat smart and probably the scarediest I’ve ever met, but I didn’t dislike her, and we were pack. The nest is quiet today.
26 May 2023 — {Happy Birthday (5/26/1920) to John Dall, master thespian of the “weary wastrel cynic” school of acting.}
These past six months without Tiche have been harder on me, emotionally, than were the last couple of years in Cincinnatistan without friends. But at least after her demise I had people to grieve with and to help me bury — Oh yeah… That appears also to have been a one-way street.
photo image of Tichelle from her Intermittent Kitty-Mommy
