Every girl needs a cat

I've said it for decades: Every girl needs a cat. And every cat needs a girl. Mr. Pound (Ezra) was my cat, and I was his girl.

My heart is now broken and I am inconsolable as I try to come to terms with life without my beloved boy cat. There aren't enough words in the English language to express the profound sadness and sorrow in my heart. He filled such a big space in there, with his little black and white face, and perpetual smile. A good natured little creature I'm convinced God made just for me.

Since March 2001, he's been my guy, my best boy. In the last 14 and a half years, there are lots of Mr. Pound stories. But my favorite is from the first night he came home to Greer, South Carolina.

I got Mr. Pound and Little E (Edna) at the Johnson City/Washington County Animal Shelter. I tried looking at the Greenville County shelter earlier in the month of March, but there were no cats. Odd, but then, as Arthur Koestler postulates, there are no coincidences. My father had just died (Dec. 2000), and I'd just lost the cat of my early adulthood, Slim, in Feb. 2001. Along a twisted T.S. Eliot vein, my life is measured out in cats (rather than coffee spoons).

My first cat, as a very young, pre-school aged child, was a beautiful Siamese named Pongy. According to the stories, we were inseparable. I vaguely remember him, but suddenly he was gone. I do remember asking my mother, day after day, where the cat was. I asked and asked and my parents told me they'd given him to the painter, Mr. Miller, who has recently finished some work at our house. I didn't get it: Why would he get my cat? I didn't find out until years later (decades, really) that he'd had to be put to sleep.

My next cat was another Siamese named Iam. She really belonged to my older sister, but once she went to college in 1969, the cat became mine. She was a lovely and loving cat. I don't recall how her name evolved to Keegie, but Keegie and I spent countless hours together. I hated bringing her that smelly cat food every night, she was a treasure that I cherished. Keegie and I were both 12 when she died. She crawled in her bed and stretched her legs out as far as they would go. When we took her to our beloved vet, Dr. Gene Reynolds, he told us that it was her way of keeping the blood flowing to her internal organs, which were shutting down. I still have Keegie's collar in my desk with a love letter I wrote to her. And it still brings tears to my eyes to think about how hard it was to lose her.

In early October of that same year, while listening to the top 40 on AM radio, my younger sister and I heard an ad for Siamese cats. We started our relentless nagging routine and Mom agreed to take a look. Once we got there, we found two kittens. We immediately fell in love with them and when Mom asked about the cat, the lady said we had to take both of them. What was she going to do? It worked out better, in a way, that there were two. One for me, one for my sister. So we got them both.

I named my cat, the male, Pim, after Anne Frank's nickname for her father. My sister named her cat, the female, Liat, after the character in South Pacific. The kittens were so much fun. They quickly grew to love us as much as they already loved each other. Pim slept around my neck like a fur collar. He would sit on my shoulders as I roller skated, and would ride in my bicycle basket. Precious cargo. He followed me around like a puppy. Once they got older and were banished from our bedroom at night, they would get in their cat bed and wrap around each other. They would curl up and you couldn't tell which cat was which. The summer I graduated from college, Pim became sick. He was only nine years old then, but Siamese males were susceptible to kidney issues. Dr. Reynolds nursed my cat back to health, snatching him from the jaws of certain death.

The following August, I moved to Miami to teach school, and in April of 1983, I got the tearful phone call from my parents as they broke the news that Pim had to be put to sleep. I still cherish the picture I have of me getting ready to move to Miami, standing in front of my overpacked car, holding my dear Pim in my arms.

Liat was so distraught after Pim's death that for more than a year, she cried and wailed for him. It was almost too much to bear. She lived to be 12, I think, but was never the same cat she was when they were together.

In 1986, Slim entered my life. Anyone who knows me as a young adult knows how special and loved that cat was. The joy we shared was truly special. In our early days, during a long distance relationship, Slim would travel in the car with me. I'd open the door and she'd hop right in. Later, she hated the car because it meant going to the vet. Slim lived to be 14 and a half before she was put to sleep in Feb. 2001.

And now, full circle, to Mr. Pound. The night I brought him home, my husband and I let the cats our of their cages so they could scout out the premises and get used to their new digs. We let them wander around for a few hours. When it was time to go to bed, I found Little E right away, but Mr. Pound was missing. They didn't know us (or their names) at that point so I got panicky. My husband said to relax, he was getting his bearing in his new environment. So I got ready for bed and when I pulled back the covers on my side, there he was.

Every night since Mr. Pound and I cuddled at bedtime. I don't know how someone could have ever given that cat to the pound. He was so loving and so sweet. If I lay on my right side, he'd tap me on the shoulder with his paw until I rolled over on my left and opened my arms. He'd crawl right in and lay against my head, gently purring and finally settling down with his head under my chin, until we both fell asleep.

I'm not sure now how I'll get through this sorrow without Mr. Pound. How will I be able to fall asleep without his gentle, constant purring, those rhythmic sounds of satisfaction and contentment. How will I pass his pillow at the end of the bed where he would nap with his front legs crossed, or find him sprawled on his back in his favorite chair? How long will I walk by the door and look for his sweet face, waiting patiently to come inside? How can I survive without his head butting and generous kitty-cat kisses?

These last 14 and a half years seem monumental to me and also, strangely, mundane, in that the sameness of our existence was comforting. It was the norm, it was our life together in an every day continuity that I am not ready to give up. I will cherish forever the pattern of familiarity, the joy of him being my cat. The wonder of me being his girl.

In loving memory of Mr. Pound (Ezra)

Entrusted to my care
March 2001-June 2015

In my heart
Forever