Pat's Wildways: empty house

Our home feels empty. There is no longer a cat scratch post, a litter box, food and water dishes, cat toys, and a lamb’s wool mat on our spare bed, that was once the “cat’s room.” But it is more than these objects that are missing. It was the beloved soul these things belonged to. Dumela, our 15-year-old cat, had to be put to sleep.

Dumela was acting old, all of a sudden it seemed — loss of energy, not grooming herself, barely eating more than she threw up. The trip to the vet for maybe an upper respiratory infection, a bloody clotted nose, closed eye and general weakness immediately led to x-rays and a diagnosis that cancer had invaded her head, was terminal; no hope. Dumela had rapidly gone downhill in the past week, from a vibrant, friendly cat, always greeting us when we came home, to a weak, fragile, sickly animal. On the night before she died, Dumela came up on the bed to “put me to bed” like she always did before retreating to her own bedroom. But this time it was different. My eyes were closed already when I awoke with a start. Dumela was staring at my eyes on the pillow just a few inches away, staring intently, startling me awake. Was she telling me something, I still wonder?

Just 12 hours later she was gone, peacefully, with Bucko and me at her side as the medicine poured into her veins and she stopped breathing. And now our breathing has changed too, to waves of jagged breaths between tears. Dumela is gone.

Dumela was always a strange cat, but I guess all cats are strange in their own way. But this cat never did “cat things.” She never pushed objects off shelves, she never went inside boxes, she never was interested in wet food, shrimp, chicken, tuna, milk. No. She only wanted her dry food, in a bowl where she could nibble when she wanted; nothing else appealed to her. Except for cat treats. She often rushed to her scratch pole to beg for the treats we stored on the counter above her.

Her personality quirks gave us so much pleasure and laughter. She was always there to greet us, stretching out on the floor, showing us her stomach and her trust of us. “Belly, belly,” Bucko would say as he reached down to pet her. And after years of trying, I finally got Dumela to “flop” like this on command, or at least when she wanted to. She always called the shots.

She and Bucko had a special routine every night when we came home. After her greeting flop, she would lure Bucko into our bedroom, where she would jump on our bed and solicit Bucko to bring out the brush. “Brush, brush,” was our signal to her that it was brushing time. Dumela loved to be brushed. Susan Gallion, our friend and faithful cat sitter over the years had this routine with Dumela too. When she would show up for a visit Dumela always flopped on her back too, then rushed to the bedroom so Susan could brush, brush her. And then of course Dumela demanded a treat, at her station at her scratch pole. Then Susan would toss toys to her that she would chase. And often Dumela would do this same routine a number of times for Susan during her hour-long visit. Susan always complied. Whatever Dumela wanted, she got, from all of us.

Whenever I went out the back door to work in my garden, Dumela would watch from inside, patiently waiting for my return. When I worked at my ever-present jigsaw puzzle, Dumela would join me on a soft towel I provided for her, and would watch the show. And whenever I lay on the sofa to read, Dumela would jump up on my stomach, and “make biscuits” and purr while I petted her. I was the nurturing mommy figure in her life. But Bucko was all dad, an individual to tease and torment, all in fun for both of them. Sometimes Dumela would pretend to come when Bucko called, only to walk right past him. Sometimes she would shy away when he tried to pet her but would come up to him later on her own terms to demand petting. “Pain in the neck cat” we called her sometimes, but all in fun. She was our own pain in the neck and we loved her dearly.

It is so empty in our house now. Even though we have removed tangible signs of her, like her litter box, food dishes and toys, we cannot forget that she is gone. Bucko and I see her empty bed, the place where the scratch post was, and the pedestal stool she used to relax on in the sun from the window. Everywhere we go we miss her yet again.

Dumela is gone. But not from our hearts. Not ever.

Pat Foster-Turley, Ph.D., is a zoologist on Amelia Island. She welcomes your nature questions and observations. Patandbucko@yahoo.com.