365 True Things: 140/Cats I

We have had four cats during the course of our marriage. The first, Tisiphone, joined us a few weeks into our so-far lifelong adventure together; she lived 18 and a half years and had many excellent adventures herself. We figure she used up all eight lives handily before her earthly one expired.

The most dramatic story involves the time we, on the spur of the moment, decided to head out of San Diego for the night and camp in the desert. We turned down a dirt road, got stuck in soft sand, agreed "Here's good enough," and set up our tent. All night long, coyotes howled in the distance, and Tisiphone came and went—prowling for mice or lizards or just enjoying basking under the starry sky. She was that kind of cat. We did worry a little about the coyotes finding her and having a tasty snack, but she survived.

Next morning at 6, we packed up, got ourselves unstuck, and headed back to the highway. There we were, speeding along at 60, alone on the road—or so we thought—when all of a sudden Tisiphone decided to jump out the driver's window. (The temperature was already up in the high 80s, so we had our windows rolled down, not even imaging she'd be foolish enough to try such a stunt.) She hit the ground, rolled, and froze: just as a BMW hurtled past in the opposite direction. Then she dashed off into the desert. David watched the scenario in the rear-view mirror, hung a U, and we zoomed back to approximately where she'd jumped. (Hard to tell in a featureless desert full of scraggly shrubs.) The BMW driver also stopped, bless his heart. We all headed into the scrub, and soon we heard her mewing. We didn't see any obvious damage—nothing broken, no big abrasions . . . just a scared shitless little orange kitty. It was Sunday, so we decided to take her home and watch her; find a vet the next day if necessary. It wasn't. She bounced right back. But still: I consider that her biggest adventure.

Then there was the time she fell through a glass ceiling: stitches needed on a hind leg. And when she was attacked by a dog—nasty belly infection, which involved much nursing back to health.  (The latter may have been a bigger adventure in terms of nearness to death.)

But then there were the fun adventures: camping at Fremont Peak (more leaping in and out of the tent all night—and delivering us two mice, which we found in the morning: one alive and terrified, the other dead). Camping with a whole group of people and the people's dogs at Coffee Camp on the Kern River: she was the kitty heroine of that get-together. Begging for food from our Swedish neighbors in Oakland, and then again from our backyard neighbor in El Cerrito. She roamed the neighborhood, making friends.

Everyone loved Tisiphone.

When her time came, we followed the lead of another friend, whose kitty crawled into a cupboard to—as her act was generally interpreted—"signal" that she was ready. Tisiphone had liver cancer, and although we let the vet give her some appetite-stimulating medicine, it was clear that she was no longer herself. No more gazing at starry skies; no more camping. The day she was unable to jump onto the bed, and then crawled to the back of the linen closet, we decided we needed to do the hard deed.

We buried her in our yard, and planted rosemary over her.

When we were remodeling and they plowed the yard to prepare it for the new landscaping, I thought of her delicate bones, and hoped they were deep enough that she wasn't disturbed in her sleep.

Sweetest and softest of kitties.

Empress of the universe.