An older,retired couple was moving out of state, and offered their used cat to my kids.
No way.
No damn cats in my house. I was adamant.
I had never had a cat in my life, and I wasn't going to have this one either.
Within a week, I had lost the battle to two teary eyed faces (who were coached, and coached well, by their mother).
Scooter came into our home, and was promptly chased by our terrier/chihuahua mix. She was scared near to death, and ended up under my son's bed, where she stayed for about four days, hidden by all the shit he had 'put away' under there.
Though I had yet to lay eyes on this demonic beast,I was serenaded by a steady chorus of hissing, growling and spitting whenever somebody dared approach the secret cave she had buried herself in. Did I say this went on for four days?
I'd had enough, and ordered the wife: Get rid of it. Kill it. I don't care. I want it gone from here, and I don't care how it is done.
I was leaving for work (night shift) and expected it out of the home before I returned.
Not sure what happened that night, but I was assured upon my return that the cat was out of the house... after the dog had chased it through the kitchen and into the garage. My garage. Also known as My office, My smoking area, My cave.
So, somewhere in among those stacks of boxes and miscellaneous storage stuff, lurked a demon. Hissing and growling whenever I ventured through the door. As a heavy smoker, this was often.
After a couple more days of this, the anger sounds stopped. "Great!" I thought. After what had to be six days without food or water, I knew I now had a dead cat hiding somewhere. But couldn't find it. I looked. Tore the place apart looking for a body to dump. After an hour, I gave up.
I sat at my bench, lit up another smoke, and took a break.
Without warning, and I didn't see it sneaking up on me, a cat jumped into my lap, and started kneading and rubbing against me.
What the...????
That is how it began.
And how Scooter became My Cat.
Or I should say, how she made me hers.
She adopted me, and followed my every move. She was waiting on the fence when I came home every morning. Most times jumping down to great me when I got out of the car.
And following me back out to the car the next evening when I left again.
She studied me, knew me rather well, and came to my voice. And only my voice.
It was pretty clear early on who mattered to her.
And the rest didn't matter at all.
She wasn't the type of cat one would normally expect from a 'pet kitty'.
She hated to be held.
Hated to be picked up.
Don't touch her. Don't talk to her.
Don't even look at her.
Pretend she's not here.
Unless it was me doing the holding, picking, touching, talking and petting.
She didn't much like strangers, or visitors, and would hide whenever somebody came to visit, magically reappearing as the guest was walking away from the house hours later.
She avoided all children, including my own, and had no use for dogs. But she'd take the extra effort to 'sort out' the occasional puppy that curiosity brought too close.
Quite the hunter, she must have brought me 4-5 offerings a week for several years. Usually a mouse, sometimes a gopher or bird, deposited near my coffee pot most mornings. Or in the garage, near my ashtray.
She knew how to impress, I'll give her that.
I'll always remember the time a couple of migrating ducks spent a couple of days in our backyard, hanging out by the pool. She wanted one. Just as she was ready to pounce, they'd jump in the water and swim to the other side, ruining a good 30 minute stalk. And she'd start all over again.
I thought she'd explode from the frustration.
After my divorce, it was just me and Scooter, with her laying an even bigger claim to my life.
I no longer needed an alarm clock. She knew that when the coffee pot started up in the kitchen, it was time for me to get up as well. And she was pretty damned insistent. I could out sleep a clock, but I couldn't ignore her.
One advantage my current wife had was Scooter's immediate acceptance. Normally, she'd pee on a stranger's shoe. Or poop, if she was particularly expressive that day. Especially a female one that was moving in on her territory.
(Not this time. It must have been a sign.)
So, the future 'Mrs.' passed the Scooter test, and now I can't seem to get rid of her,either.
There's a pattern here,right?
Vet visits were always an adventure. Scooter hated doctors more than strangers or children. My vet normally took a critter off to a separate room to draw blood samples. He tried this with Scooter to no avail. I could hear the commotion all the way in the lobby. Finally, I was called to go in with them. If I didn't, somebody else would be giving blood, as well.
Her file had the word "MUZZLE" written across it in red, just so they knew what they were in for on sucessive visits.
I thought it was a bad rap. My baby wasn't mean. She was untrusting, is all. A one-man cat. Nothing wrong with that.
It was through my relationship with Scooter that I learned just how cool a cat could be. That there was much more 'there' there than met the eye.
But Scooter was not only a character, she also had good character. A sense of loyalty, companionship and commitment people normally assign to a trusted dog, not a cat.
I became a regular donor to cat rescue groups. I think I can say that Scooter gave more to the welfare of her species through her relationship with me than few other cats can claim.
A few years ago, Scooter came down with a health issue common to older cats: an inflamed thyroid. Surgery removed it, with the second thyroid following a year later.
I was sure her clock was ticking, being already 17 years old, and having spent much of her life as an indoor/outdoor cat.
It was then that I decided to keep her indoors. It didn't really much matter to her by then. Her active years were over, and she was quite content to live surrounded by carpeting and plush furniture.
But still waiting for her buddy, every day, when his car pulled into the garage.
And still waiting for the coffee maker to start up every morning as her call to duty.
Despite medication, her thyroid problems continued to flare up. She was losing weight, and it was to the point where the medication wasn't doing much for her anymore.
After all, twenty years is a long time for a cat, and though I sensed this was our last year together, I was still holding out hope for one or two more.
Last Monday, she refused to eat, and I knew our time was coming to a close.
Tuesday morning I began the grim task of preparing her final resting place, near a lemon tree I recently planted in the side yard. The kind of place she used to enjoy while laying in the shade in our old yard.
I wrapped the inside of a small box with her favorite crinkly brown paper. The same paper that was her preferred sleeping surface. She was picky, and not all paper was created equal. She also liked Christmas wrap, color side down. I always kept a roll handy.
Last night, as I stroked her head and spoke to her, she took her last breath, and quietly slipped away.
Farewell, my Scooter.
You were a great companion, an honest friend, and always there when it seemed that nobody else was.
