When my Mom passed away in 2007, I inherited the house and her cat, Cleo.  Well, actually, Cleo was my Dad’s cat.  She was a birthday gift from my sister in 1990, to replace their cat who had recently died.  Both of my parents loved having a cat, even though my Mom was notoriously against it until they had their first cat, Courtney, who was also a birthday present for Dad from my sister.  Courtney was a white-haired cat who shed prodicious amounts of fur.  I dubbed her The White Tornado because you could follow her trail through the house.  She was prone to getting knots in her fur and Mom would spend hours on the couch, watching TV and combing out knots.  One time Mom gave Courtney a bath in the basement laundry tub that left Courtney with a permanent cowlick near the back of her spine.  I always joked that she’d broken the cat.   My Mom loved to tell the story about how Courtney would quickly and deliberately walk, not run, down to the basement and hide under the couch at the first clap of thunder.  Mom used to call it Courtney’s “fire drill”, which was a perfect description.  So when Courtney died, it was only natural for my sister to get them another cat.

Dad was the one who took care of Cleo.  He fed her and tended her litter box, and also spent the most time with her.  Dad liked to putter around the yard.  He wasn’t a lawn and garden fanatic, but he kept the house and yard presentable.  One of Dad’s favorite things was to set up a chair in the front yard, sit down with a good book and chat with the neighbors passing by.  And Cleo would be right there with him.   Dad also liked to take a walk around the block, and Cleo would often follow him.  Cleo was notorious on our block for following Dad on his walks – 20 yards behind, but never out of sight.  Indoors, Cleo would sit on Dad’s lap when he was reading, or hop on his bed when he’d take the occasional nap.  But Cleo was not a people cat.  She hated to be picked up, and wasn’t even fond of being petted.  You practically had to have your ear on her chest to know when she was purring.

After Dad passed in 2003, my Mom took care of the cat as best she could.  Cleo was not really a people cat.  She hated to be picked up, and wasn’t even fond of being petted.  Unlike Courtney, you couldn’t identify Cleo as having a distinct personality other than her independence.  Often, it was left to my sister to take care of Cleo during her frequent visits because my Mom’s health was deteriorating.  But I know my Mom liked having Cleo with her, just to have someone else in the house with her.  Still, Cleo’s world was pretty much limited to the house, until I moved back home in the summer of 2007, in part to take care of Mom.

Once it became just me and Cleo, I tried to pay as much attention as I could to her.  Cleo was a marvel to our family because of her longevity, which we attributed to her being so thin.  She just didn’t care much for any of the cat food my Mom gave her, and really didn’t like any of the other food and cat treats I tried to tempt her with.  But she did become attached enough to me to sleep on my bed and stay with me when I was working in the bedroom I converted into my home office.  It was difficult for me to get close to her.  There was the food thing, of course.  I tried every cat food and cat treat Rainbow and Target sold.  I got so desperate to please her that I tried things like leftover hamburger, canned salmon and tuna, and she didn’t care much for any of them.  But if I had a snack in bed, she was all over me for a taste – which reminds me that there was an exception.  She loved vanilla ice cream.  She seemed to like the smell of popcorn, but she never quite got the hang of eating it, even though I broke up the kernels into cat-sized morsels.  And whether it was because her litter box was in the basement of our two-story colonial, or because it hadn’t been cleaned regularly since my Dad died, she’d started to regularly pee in the dining room.  And since she had gone completely deaf, she was impossible to discipline unless I caught her in the act.  So, she was tough to love.

I’ve always liked cats, and Cleo was a companion – another being to talk to during the day, even though I knew she couldn’t hear a word I said, much less understand me.  Cleo and I knew each other from my visits home from California, so while I knew I couldn’t expect much in terms of affection, I was very grateful for her presence.  She routinely strolled into my office and screamed for attention… her meows got steadily louder as her hearing faded.  She usually just wanted some attention.  She was grateful for the skritching sessions, and I was happy for the diversion from the computer screen.  Sometimes, she would just curl up on the bed behind me and catnap.

Cleo got sick in March and couldn’t eat or drink.  She had no reserves to draw on, and got very weak.  I took her to the vet, but they didn’t offer any treatment.  She was barely 2.5 pounds to begin with, and had shrunk to a pound and a half.  24 hours later, I had to go back to have her put to sleep.  I don’t have to tell you what a wretched decision that is to have to make.  Despite her many flaws, I do miss her.  I was checking my computer today and ran across one of the two photos I have of her, because I have a client who makes digital paintings on canvas from photos.  He’s a pet portrait artist and a digital magician, and I’m thinking about having him make a portrait of Cleo for me.  If there’s a special pet in your house, be sure to take photos to have keepsakes.  Memory is too fragile.