Everyone loves the cat or cats they have, but if you had to make a list of qualities for the ideal cat, you'd probably list things like affectionate, smart, unfearful, undemanding, peaceful, long-lived, happy, communicative, attractive.
When I was looking for a new cat back in 1994, I didn't know I'd find a cat who possessed all this. I wasn't thinking of much except relieving the pain of my grieving orange cat, Howitzer and myself. We'd lost our big, black, senior cat LeRoy to cancer, and that's when I learned that cats really do grieve; Howitzer began calling in LeRoy's voice, sleeping in all LeRoy's old spots, and all but bursting into tears every day when I had to leave for work. Frankly, I wasn't sure I was ready for a new cat, but clearly Howitzer, who'd never been alone in his life, was, so for his sake I began to look for our new family member. I was enough of a sentimental sap to go back to the same animal shelter at which I'd found LeRoy 13 years before - the Morris Animal Refuge.
LeRoy had been still alive while our new family member was on his way to us, but of course we did not know that at the time. In southeastern Pennsylvania, we usually see our first snow around Christmas, and our last one in February. So it was an unusual occurrence, but for some reason it happened three years in a row; in 1993, 1994 and 1995 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania was hit by unexpected late season blizzards at the very end of March. 1994's was not the most spectacular, but it was the most important for me, because my best friend for a chunk of my life would emerge from it.
During 1994's blizzard, in a small concrete block backyard in South Philly, in a box covered by a plastic shower curtain and stuffed with old towels, a middle aged mom cat named Tiger was giving birth to five kittens. The backyard belonged to an older lady named Olivia who took care of homeless urban cats. Olivia could not get out into the backyard on March 28th when the storm hit, but she managed to do so on March 29th when she found Tiger with her kittens. She marked it on her calendar that the kittens had been born on either the 28th or 29th, and brought the mother and babies inside to escape the cold. Ten or twelve weeks later she brought the kittens to the Morris Animal Refuge in the hopes they would be adopted.
It was a long trip for me to go to Morris, but it felt like the right thing to do, and on the way I prayed that if there were a cat there as cool as LeRoy had been, I didn't want to miss him. I knew I would never find another LeRoy, but it seemed right to honor his memory by finding a new family member at the same place. I cruised around the cages and felt no bonding with any particular cat, though I would have taken them all home if I could have. Resigned that it was not to be that day, I turned to leave and there by the door was a glass display case I had missed on my way in, and inside was a litter of five kittens, all tortoise-shell, and one solid black one. I didn't want to be a complete fool and choose a cat just because he was black like the one I'd just lost, so I went round all the cages slowly once again, seeing a potential friend in every cage... the one who kept speaking loudly, the one next to it with half a tail, the one next to that with the beautiful eyes. I kept praying for a sign to let me know which cat was the one that should be entrusted to me. As much as I wanted to, I felt no special magic with any of them.
Finally I came back to this black kitten. I hated the notion of separating him from his siblings, but I knew regardless that they would be separated one way or another. Every kitten is cute, and he was no exception, with his black fur still thick with long fuzzy kitten undercoat. I asked to see him, and he was placed in my arms, which I held against my chest. The kitten rapidly scaled my front, perched on my shoulder, put his tiny black baby face in my ear and in a high teeny voice screamed "Eeeee!". I'd been looking for some cosmic signal, and it seemed clear enough now that I had been chosen. The feelings I had were startling; I was kind of weak with emotion, captivated by his need and directness, wanting to protect him. Fine, where do I sign? At the desk, I asked where he was from and was advised he had been brought in by someone local... they thought... hold on... and they looked it up in a book. My eye fell on the page and I memorized the address of the "donor" thinking someday I would stop by and say "Thank you, your black kitten is fine".
Three days later, on the way home after my references had been checked and I was approved, I brought the kitten in a large carrier to see my wonderful vet, an Israeli gent. He gave the kitten a thorough checkover, pronouncing him in good health. I asked him how much the kitten weighed, and lifting him up and down in one hand he responded "He is like a hoagie" leading to one of the many nicknames the kitten would acquire over his long life, "The Hoagie".
It was May and beautiful. I excitedly brought the carrier with the kitten onto the porch, and then went to get Howitzer so he could meet his tiny new buddy. It was crushing when (probably in fear) he hissed and walked away, but fortunately it was not any kind of omen. They would be best buds in 10 days, and Howitzer's grief over losing LeRoy blew over.
The new boy may have been a baby, but he was an old soul. The kitten established immediately that he was assertive but reasonable. The first night, I made him a small litterbox and put it in the carrier with him, and put the carrier next to my bed so we could see one another. No way I was letting a new unknown kitten loose in my bedroom on the first night. He cried over and over in his high voice and I kept trying to calm him down, speaking softly back to him, but it was apparent he wasn't going to stop. Exhausted, I finally brought him out onto the bed with me and laid back down. In short order, he curled up between my neck and shoulder and fell asleep and stayed there until morning. I should have known that a kitten accustomed to sleeping in a heap with his siblings could not be expected to sleep alone. This became a pattern over his life as well; he never asked for much, but when he did he was firm about it, and right.
He was a joyful kitten, constantly busy as only kittens can be. You'd catch glimpses of him running here or there. He explored every inch of the apartment and kept surprising me with his energy and high spirits. He once apparently managed to find and unwrap a tampon from my purse and I howled to see him run across the room with it gripped in his mouth like a mouse, the string a dangling tail. Howitzer might be eating, and the kitten would gnaw on his tail. He'd chase behind Howitzer or jump off the bed onto his back. He liked to be close to me or Howitzer, but he did not take to affection much - life was too interesting to sit still for petting. I was initially disappointed because I had hoped for a cat that liked affection, petting, brushing and such, but he was just young, and in future years the kitten would far surpass my hopes... it just took time.
Naming the boy took time too. I wanted to give him a name that suited him and many floated through my mind. Tabasco Cat was one. Talladega was another. These names suggest spice and action which indeed would have been suitable. He was an active, nimble creature, energy flowed through him. He spoke in italics, with emphasis, though his mouth was often closed. He'd jump up onto something and land nicely, saying "Brrrr!" through his lips, his special "effort noise". He was electric, and somehow the name of my old violin teacher came to me, Jasper. It was a fine old name and quickly morphed also into "Deezer" which sounded as electric as the kitten.
As a kitten and all through his life, Jasper was all about movement, height, electricity, leaping, scaling. He was dynamic, and almost ferret-like in his length and skinniness. He was all alley-cat, slow to let his guard down, running at the inexplicable sounds, and diving under the bed when there were visitors until he reached middle age and suddenly became more collected, and interested in new people. Once he knew you, he was terrific and actually a show-off. We had a contemporary railing going up the stairs that wrapped around the top floor. Jasper regularly jumped onto the railing and marched around, though it was perhaps only an inch wide, and he let you know about it too. My husband and I might be downstairs watching a movie when we'd hear a small thump followed by Jasper's peculiar announcement holler. My husband would turn to me with a knowing smile and say "He's mounted" so we'd get up and stand under the steps, looking up to the second floor at our furry acrobat up there parading around, and we'd tell him how cool he was. Jasper was beauty in motion, making no false moves. While other cats might scramble to get up on furniture, Jasper always overshot his target height-wise and landed neatly from the small descent. Jasper was the first cat of mine that did not come consistently when called, and when he disregarded you, you could tell he had thought it over and was a bit sorry, but something more pressing called him away. He was lightning, smooth and fast, nimble and physical.
There is an old story about a little boy finding poop in his Christmas stocking, and being very happy about it. His parents ask why he's so excited and he said "It means there's a pony around here somewhere!" That was Jazz. He went into every situation thinking only good would come of it. It never occurred to him -his whole life- to fight, or be angry or ugly in any way. Over his life he would meet and raise several cats and every time he found room in his home and heart for one more. He was raised by Howitzer, and later helped raised Katey Lou. When he was 12 he raised Shamus, and at 14 he welcomed Fiona, an eight month old feral kitten who came to us from outside. At 15 he made room ungrudgingly for Sylvia, another young feral. He even tried to make friends with a mature untrusting cat we inherited from my by-then deceased friend Olivia. For every one, through his level-headedness and kindness he set the example saying "Welcome, we're cool here, no static at all." That means that over his life he was a good and major influence on five other cats.
Once older and at ease with you, there was no cat who abandoned himself to pleasure more, tummy included. When Howitzer finally died, it mellowed him, made him more interested in human companionship. He adored being brushed gently, and waited each night for me to go upstairs and read before bed so he could curl up with me and purr contentedly. My habit was to read on the bed sitting Indian style, and he'd curl up in the basket made by my legs.
And with his age-acquired wisdom, he became comfortable about switching locales. When I got him, I lived in an apartment, and then he segued into my first house. Then we moved to California where he loved the sun, and the balcony and hummingbirds. Then back to the house, and then to another house where we took care of my mom until her passing. He made himself at home everywhere.
In his last home, one where we took care of my mom, he made himself felt to her which was funny because she did not have a soft spot for cats, though she enjoyed watching them. The cats somehow knew she just wasn't that interested, and they rarely tried to engage with her. I still recall one funny evening, I was upstairs with the baby monitor at my side so I could hear if Mom needed anything. I'd just left her side, having set her up with a plate with a McDonald's Quarter Pounder with cheese and some fries. Over the monitor I heard something like this: "Well, hello there. What are you doing here? Are you going to sit with me? Stop that. No. No!" I bolted from the room, raced down the stairs to find my dear Jazz perched on the arm of Mom's recliner, his face practically in hers, doing his best to let her know that he'd like to try a bit of her burger. He must've been very tempted, because he never was food assertive, even with us, and much less with a lady who didn't take to cats. Very uncharacteristic of him, and just out of the blue. I still don't get it, why the burger, and why my mom? It remains an odd and fond memory.
Most of his life Jazz enjoyed good health, and maintained his lithe figure and athleticism. Late in life, as is common with many older cats, he developed chronic kidney disease. You cannot stop that condition, you can only try to slow it. Special foods? He wouldn't eat them, and he felt so poorly that getting him to eat regular food was hard. You can give your cat subcutaneous fluids to help flush out the toxins the kidneys no longer can handle, but he hated when we did it, actually crying, and I confess I had a hard time too, punching the thicker needle between his shoulder blades. And for whatever reason, he also developed auditory-induced seizures. No one could account for it, but I could clearly see the association: any time you opened a crinkly snack bag, the noise would make his pupils go huge and then he'd fall to the ground and have a visible shaking seizure. We took to opening chips or pretzels in closets or bathrooms, and he was fine.
As bad as the last months were for him, all his love of others came back to him. My husband and I loved on him more, but the other cats were visibly sympathetic. Shamus and Sylvia were kind but non-intrusive, while Fiona became a doting niece, hanging with him during seizures, and staying by his side when he wasn't feeling well.
It became clear he was suffering finally, and I had our vet come to the house to put my sweet boy to sleep. We sat in the front room, Jasper on my lap on some blankets and towels, while they ran the line to give him the substance that would bring his life to an end. I'd been down this road before with other cats, but somehow this passing was going to be harder than any other. All our years together, all the implicit understanding; he'd become like your favorite old shoes, that just fit perfectly. He had shared and knew everything about my young adulthood, my single years, my early married ones, all the places I'd lived and other cats that joined our family. He had a mountaintop perspective, and in leaving, my oldest cat and dear friend would be disappearing with all we had shared. I don't have much memory of his passing other than knowing I held him and spoke comfortingly to him as long as I could, and was trying not to upset him with my tears. Afterwards, as the vet and her assistant prepared to leave with Jasper in a blanket, when we opened the front door you could see a hefty snowstorm had begun, just like the one he had been born in. As they walked out into it, I imagined the snow falling onto my sweet boy, and stupidly, pathetically called behind them "Please keep him warm!"
Deezer, Buzz, Mumbles, Monkey-Man, Hoagie, Jazz, Monkey-Chops, Bud, Deeze... no matter how I remember you, know that I always will. Thank you for the love you gave to me, my family, and all the cats you left behind, and the peace you brought to our home. You were a beautiful catalyst, and I pray we meet again.
When I was looking for a new cat back in 1994, I didn't know I'd find a cat who possessed all this. I wasn't thinking of much except relieving the pain of my grieving orange cat, Howitzer and myself. We'd lost our big, black, senior cat LeRoy to cancer, and that's when I learned that cats really do grieve; Howitzer began calling in LeRoy's voice, sleeping in all LeRoy's old spots, and all but bursting into tears every day when I had to leave for work. Frankly, I wasn't sure I was ready for a new cat, but clearly Howitzer, who'd never been alone in his life, was, so for his sake I began to look for our new family member. I was enough of a sentimental sap to go back to the same animal shelter at which I'd found LeRoy 13 years before - the Morris Animal Refuge.
LeRoy had been still alive while our new family member was on his way to us, but of course we did not know that at the time. In southeastern Pennsylvania, we usually see our first snow around Christmas, and our last one in February. So it was an unusual occurrence, but for some reason it happened three years in a row; in 1993, 1994 and 1995 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania was hit by unexpected late season blizzards at the very end of March. 1994's was not the most spectacular, but it was the most important for me, because my best friend for a chunk of my life would emerge from it.
During 1994's blizzard, in a small concrete block backyard in South Philly, in a box covered by a plastic shower curtain and stuffed with old towels, a middle aged mom cat named Tiger was giving birth to five kittens. The backyard belonged to an older lady named Olivia who took care of homeless urban cats. Olivia could not get out into the backyard on March 28th when the storm hit, but she managed to do so on March 29th when she found Tiger with her kittens. She marked it on her calendar that the kittens had been born on either the 28th or 29th, and brought the mother and babies inside to escape the cold. Ten or twelve weeks later she brought the kittens to the Morris Animal Refuge in the hopes they would be adopted.
It was a long trip for me to go to Morris, but it felt like the right thing to do, and on the way I prayed that if there were a cat there as cool as LeRoy had been, I didn't want to miss him. I knew I would never find another LeRoy, but it seemed right to honor his memory by finding a new family member at the same place. I cruised around the cages and felt no bonding with any particular cat, though I would have taken them all home if I could have. Resigned that it was not to be that day, I turned to leave and there by the door was a glass display case I had missed on my way in, and inside was a litter of five kittens, all tortoise-shell, and one solid black one. I didn't want to be a complete fool and choose a cat just because he was black like the one I'd just lost, so I went round all the cages slowly once again, seeing a potential friend in every cage... the one who kept speaking loudly, the one next to it with half a tail, the one next to that with the beautiful eyes. I kept praying for a sign to let me know which cat was the one that should be entrusted to me. As much as I wanted to, I felt no special magic with any of them.
Finally I came back to this black kitten. I hated the notion of separating him from his siblings, but I knew regardless that they would be separated one way or another. Every kitten is cute, and he was no exception, with his black fur still thick with long fuzzy kitten undercoat. I asked to see him, and he was placed in my arms, which I held against my chest. The kitten rapidly scaled my front, perched on my shoulder, put his tiny black baby face in my ear and in a high teeny voice screamed "Eeeee!". I'd been looking for some cosmic signal, and it seemed clear enough now that I had been chosen. The feelings I had were startling; I was kind of weak with emotion, captivated by his need and directness, wanting to protect him. Fine, where do I sign? At the desk, I asked where he was from and was advised he had been brought in by someone local... they thought... hold on... and they looked it up in a book. My eye fell on the page and I memorized the address of the "donor" thinking someday I would stop by and say "Thank you, your black kitten is fine".
Three days later, on the way home after my references had been checked and I was approved, I brought the kitten in a large carrier to see my wonderful vet, an Israeli gent. He gave the kitten a thorough checkover, pronouncing him in good health. I asked him how much the kitten weighed, and lifting him up and down in one hand he responded "He is like a hoagie" leading to one of the many nicknames the kitten would acquire over his long life, "The Hoagie".
It was May and beautiful. I excitedly brought the carrier with the kitten onto the porch, and then went to get Howitzer so he could meet his tiny new buddy. It was crushing when (probably in fear) he hissed and walked away, but fortunately it was not any kind of omen. They would be best buds in 10 days, and Howitzer's grief over losing LeRoy blew over.
The new boy may have been a baby, but he was an old soul. The kitten established immediately that he was assertive but reasonable. The first night, I made him a small litterbox and put it in the carrier with him, and put the carrier next to my bed so we could see one another. No way I was letting a new unknown kitten loose in my bedroom on the first night. He cried over and over in his high voice and I kept trying to calm him down, speaking softly back to him, but it was apparent he wasn't going to stop. Exhausted, I finally brought him out onto the bed with me and laid back down. In short order, he curled up between my neck and shoulder and fell asleep and stayed there until morning. I should have known that a kitten accustomed to sleeping in a heap with his siblings could not be expected to sleep alone. This became a pattern over his life as well; he never asked for much, but when he did he was firm about it, and right.
He was a joyful kitten, constantly busy as only kittens can be. You'd catch glimpses of him running here or there. He explored every inch of the apartment and kept surprising me with his energy and high spirits. He once apparently managed to find and unwrap a tampon from my purse and I howled to see him run across the room with it gripped in his mouth like a mouse, the string a dangling tail. Howitzer might be eating, and the kitten would gnaw on his tail. He'd chase behind Howitzer or jump off the bed onto his back. He liked to be close to me or Howitzer, but he did not take to affection much - life was too interesting to sit still for petting. I was initially disappointed because I had hoped for a cat that liked affection, petting, brushing and such, but he was just young, and in future years the kitten would far surpass my hopes... it just took time.
Naming the boy took time too. I wanted to give him a name that suited him and many floated through my mind. Tabasco Cat was one. Talladega was another. These names suggest spice and action which indeed would have been suitable. He was an active, nimble creature, energy flowed through him. He spoke in italics, with emphasis, though his mouth was often closed. He'd jump up onto something and land nicely, saying "Brrrr!" through his lips, his special "effort noise". He was electric, and somehow the name of my old violin teacher came to me, Jasper. It was a fine old name and quickly morphed also into "Deezer" which sounded as electric as the kitten.
As a kitten and all through his life, Jasper was all about movement, height, electricity, leaping, scaling. He was dynamic, and almost ferret-like in his length and skinniness. He was all alley-cat, slow to let his guard down, running at the inexplicable sounds, and diving under the bed when there were visitors until he reached middle age and suddenly became more collected, and interested in new people. Once he knew you, he was terrific and actually a show-off. We had a contemporary railing going up the stairs that wrapped around the top floor. Jasper regularly jumped onto the railing and marched around, though it was perhaps only an inch wide, and he let you know about it too. My husband and I might be downstairs watching a movie when we'd hear a small thump followed by Jasper's peculiar announcement holler. My husband would turn to me with a knowing smile and say "He's mounted" so we'd get up and stand under the steps, looking up to the second floor at our furry acrobat up there parading around, and we'd tell him how cool he was. Jasper was beauty in motion, making no false moves. While other cats might scramble to get up on furniture, Jasper always overshot his target height-wise and landed neatly from the small descent. Jasper was the first cat of mine that did not come consistently when called, and when he disregarded you, you could tell he had thought it over and was a bit sorry, but something more pressing called him away. He was lightning, smooth and fast, nimble and physical.
There is an old story about a little boy finding poop in his Christmas stocking, and being very happy about it. His parents ask why he's so excited and he said "It means there's a pony around here somewhere!" That was Jazz. He went into every situation thinking only good would come of it. It never occurred to him -his whole life- to fight, or be angry or ugly in any way. Over his life he would meet and raise several cats and every time he found room in his home and heart for one more. He was raised by Howitzer, and later helped raised Katey Lou. When he was 12 he raised Shamus, and at 14 he welcomed Fiona, an eight month old feral kitten who came to us from outside. At 15 he made room ungrudgingly for Sylvia, another young feral. He even tried to make friends with a mature untrusting cat we inherited from my by-then deceased friend Olivia. For every one, through his level-headedness and kindness he set the example saying "Welcome, we're cool here, no static at all." That means that over his life he was a good and major influence on five other cats.
Once older and at ease with you, there was no cat who abandoned himself to pleasure more, tummy included. When Howitzer finally died, it mellowed him, made him more interested in human companionship. He adored being brushed gently, and waited each night for me to go upstairs and read before bed so he could curl up with me and purr contentedly. My habit was to read on the bed sitting Indian style, and he'd curl up in the basket made by my legs.
And with his age-acquired wisdom, he became comfortable about switching locales. When I got him, I lived in an apartment, and then he segued into my first house. Then we moved to California where he loved the sun, and the balcony and hummingbirds. Then back to the house, and then to another house where we took care of my mom until her passing. He made himself at home everywhere.
In his last home, one where we took care of my mom, he made himself felt to her which was funny because she did not have a soft spot for cats, though she enjoyed watching them. The cats somehow knew she just wasn't that interested, and they rarely tried to engage with her. I still recall one funny evening, I was upstairs with the baby monitor at my side so I could hear if Mom needed anything. I'd just left her side, having set her up with a plate with a McDonald's Quarter Pounder with cheese and some fries. Over the monitor I heard something like this: "Well, hello there. What are you doing here? Are you going to sit with me? Stop that. No. No!" I bolted from the room, raced down the stairs to find my dear Jazz perched on the arm of Mom's recliner, his face practically in hers, doing his best to let her know that he'd like to try a bit of her burger. He must've been very tempted, because he never was food assertive, even with us, and much less with a lady who didn't take to cats. Very uncharacteristic of him, and just out of the blue. I still don't get it, why the burger, and why my mom? It remains an odd and fond memory.
Most of his life Jazz enjoyed good health, and maintained his lithe figure and athleticism. Late in life, as is common with many older cats, he developed chronic kidney disease. You cannot stop that condition, you can only try to slow it. Special foods? He wouldn't eat them, and he felt so poorly that getting him to eat regular food was hard. You can give your cat subcutaneous fluids to help flush out the toxins the kidneys no longer can handle, but he hated when we did it, actually crying, and I confess I had a hard time too, punching the thicker needle between his shoulder blades. And for whatever reason, he also developed auditory-induced seizures. No one could account for it, but I could clearly see the association: any time you opened a crinkly snack bag, the noise would make his pupils go huge and then he'd fall to the ground and have a visible shaking seizure. We took to opening chips or pretzels in closets or bathrooms, and he was fine.
As bad as the last months were for him, all his love of others came back to him. My husband and I loved on him more, but the other cats were visibly sympathetic. Shamus and Sylvia were kind but non-intrusive, while Fiona became a doting niece, hanging with him during seizures, and staying by his side when he wasn't feeling well.
It became clear he was suffering finally, and I had our vet come to the house to put my sweet boy to sleep. We sat in the front room, Jasper on my lap on some blankets and towels, while they ran the line to give him the substance that would bring his life to an end. I'd been down this road before with other cats, but somehow this passing was going to be harder than any other. All our years together, all the implicit understanding; he'd become like your favorite old shoes, that just fit perfectly. He had shared and knew everything about my young adulthood, my single years, my early married ones, all the places I'd lived and other cats that joined our family. He had a mountaintop perspective, and in leaving, my oldest cat and dear friend would be disappearing with all we had shared. I don't have much memory of his passing other than knowing I held him and spoke comfortingly to him as long as I could, and was trying not to upset him with my tears. Afterwards, as the vet and her assistant prepared to leave with Jasper in a blanket, when we opened the front door you could see a hefty snowstorm had begun, just like the one he had been born in. As they walked out into it, I imagined the snow falling onto my sweet boy, and stupidly, pathetically called behind them "Please keep him warm!"
Deezer, Buzz, Mumbles, Monkey-Man, Hoagie, Jazz, Monkey-Chops, Bud, Deeze... no matter how I remember you, know that I always will. Thank you for the love you gave to me, my family, and all the cats you left behind, and the peace you brought to our home. You were a beautiful catalyst, and I pray we meet again.
Everyone loves the cat or cats they have, but if you had to make a list of qualities for the ideal cat, you'd probably list things like affectionate, smart, unfearful, undemanding, peaceful, long-lived, happy, communicative, attractive.
When I was looking for a new cat back in 1994, I didn't know I'd find a cat who possessed all this. I wasn't thinking of much except relieving the pain of my grieving orange cat, Howitzer and myself. We'd lost our big, black, senior cat LeRoy to cancer, and that's when I learned that cats really do grieve; Howitzer began calling in LeRoy's voice, sleeping in all LeRoy's old spots, and all but bursting into tears every day when I had to leave for work. Frankly, I wasn't sure I was ready for a new cat, but clearly Howitzer, who'd never been alone in his life, was, so for his sake I began to look for our new family member. I was enough of a sentimental sap to go back to the same animal shelter at which I'd found LeRoy 13 years before - the Morris Animal Refuge.
LeRoy had been still alive while our new family member was on his way to us, but of course we did not know that at the time. In southeastern Pennsylvania, we usually see our first snow around Christmas, and our last one in February. So it was an unusual occurrence, but for some reason it happened three years in a row; in 1993, 1994 and 1995 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania was hit by unexpected late season blizzards at the very end of March. 1994's was not the most spectacular, but it was the most important for me, because my best friend for a chunk of my life would emerge from it.
During 1994's blizzard, in a small concrete block backyard in South Philly, in a box covered by a plastic shower curtain and stuffed with old towels, a middle aged mom cat named Tiger was giving birth to five kittens. The backyard belonged to an older lady named Olivia who took care of homeless urban cats. Olivia could not get out into the backyard on March 28th when the storm hit, but she managed to do so on March 29th when she found Tiger with her kittens. She marked it on her calendar that the kittens had been born on either the 28th or 29th, and brought the mother and babies inside to escape the cold. Ten or twelve weeks later she brought the kittens to the Morris Animal Refuge in the hopes they would be adopted.
It was a long trip for me to go to Morris, but it felt like the right thing to do, and on the way I prayed that if there were a cat there as cool as LeRoy had been, I didn't want to miss him. I knew I would never find another LeRoy, but it seemed right to honor his memory by finding a new family member at the same place. I cruised around the cages and felt no bonding with any particular cat, though I would have taken them all home if I could have. Resigned that it was not to be that day, I turned to leave and there by the door was a glass display case I had missed on my way in, and inside was a litter of five kittens, all tortoise-shell, and one solid black one. I didn't want to be a complete fool and choose a cat just because he was black like the one I'd just lost, so I went round all the cages slowly once again, seeing a potential friend in every cage... the one who kept speaking loudly, the one next to it with half a tail, the one next to that with the beautiful eyes. I kept praying for a sign to let me know which cat was the one that should be entrusted to me. As much as I wanted to, I felt no special magic with any of them.
Finally I came back to this black kitten. I hated the notion of separating him from his siblings, but I knew regardless that they would be separated one way or another. Every kitten is cute, and he was no exception, with his black fur still thick with long fuzzy kitten undercoat. I asked to see him, and he was placed in my arms, which I held against my chest. The kitten rapidly scaled my front, perched on my shoulder, put his tiny black baby face in my ear and in a high teeny voice screamed "Eeeee!". I'd been looking for some cosmic signal, and it seemed clear enough now that I had been chosen. The feelings I had were startling; I was kind of weak with emotion, captivated by his need and directness, wanting to protect him. Fine, where do I sign? At the desk, I asked where he was from and was advised he had been brought in by someone local... they thought... hold on... and they looked it up in a book. My eye fell on the page and I memorized the address of the "donor" thinking someday I would stop by and say "Thank you, your black kitten is fine".
Three days later, on the way home after my references had been checked and I was approved, I brought the kitten in a large carrier to see my wonderful vet, an Israeli gent. He gave the kitten a thorough checkover, pronouncing him in good health. I asked him how much the kitten weighed, and lifting him up and down in one hand he responded "He is like a hoagie" leading to one of the many nicknames the kitten would acquire over his long life, "The Hoagie".
It was May and beautiful. I excitedly brought the carrier with the kitten onto the porch, and then went to get Howitzer so he could meet his tiny new buddy. It was crushing when (probably in fear) he hissed and walked away, but fortunately it was not any kind of omen. They would be best buds in 10 days, and Howitzer's grief over losing LeRoy blew over.
The new boy may have been a baby, but he was an old soul. The kitten established immediately that he was assertive but reasonable. The first night, I made him a small litterbox and put it in the carrier with him, and put the carrier next to my bed so we could see one another. No way I was letting a new unknown kitten loose in my bedroom on the first night. He cried over and over in his high voice and I kept trying to calm him down, speaking softly back to him, but it was apparent he wasn't going to stop. Exhausted, I finally brought him out onto the bed with me and laid back down. In short order, he curled up between my neck and shoulder and fell asleep and stayed there until morning. I should have known that a kitten accustomed to sleeping in a heap with his siblings could not be expected to sleep alone. This became a pattern over his life as well; he never asked for much, but when he did he was firm about it, and right.
He was a joyful kitten, constantly busy as only kittens can be. You'd catch glimpses of him running here or there. He explored every inch of the apartment and kept surprising me with his energy and high spirits. He once apparently managed to find and unwrap a tampon from my purse and I howled to see him run across the room with it gripped in his mouth like a mouse, the string a dangling tail. Howitzer might be eating, and the kitten would gnaw on his tail. He'd chase behind Howitzer or jump off the bed onto his back. He liked to be close to me or Howitzer, but he did not take to affection much - life was too interesting to sit still for petting. I was initially disappointed because I had hoped for a cat that liked affection, petting, brushing and such, but he was just young, and in future years the kitten would far surpass my hopes... it just took time.
Naming the boy took time too. I wanted to give him a name that suited him and many floated through my mind. Tabasco Cat was one. Talladega was another. These names suggest spice and action which indeed would have been suitable. He was an active, nimble creature, energy flowed through him. He spoke in italics, with emphasis, though his mouth was often closed. He'd jump up onto something and land nicely, saying "Brrrr!" through his lips, his special "effort noise". He was electric, and somehow the name of my old violin teacher came to me, Jasper. It was a fine old name and quickly morphed also into "Deezer" which sounded as electric as the kitten.
As a kitten and all through his life, Jasper was all about movement, height, electricity, leaping, scaling. He was dynamic, and almost ferret-like in his length and skinniness. He was all alley-cat, slow to let his guard down, running at the inexplicable sounds, and diving under the bed when there were visitors until he reached middle age and suddenly became more collected, and interested in new people. Once he knew you, he was terrific and actually a show-off. We had a contemporary railing going up the stairs that wrapped around the top floor. Jasper regularly jumped onto the railing and marched around, though it was perhaps only an inch wide, and he let you know about it too. My husband and I might be downstairs watching a movie when we'd hear a small thump followed by Jasper's peculiar announcement holler. My husband would turn to me with a knowing smile and say "He's mounted" so we'd get up and stand under the steps, looking up to the second floor at our furry acrobat up there parading around, and we'd tell him how cool he was. Jasper was beauty in motion, making no false moves. While other cats might scramble to get up on furniture, Jasper always overshot his target height-wise and landed neatly from the small descent. Jasper was the first cat of mine that did not come consistently when called, and when he disregarded you, you could tell he had thought it over and was a bit sorry, but something more pressing called him away. He was lightning, smooth and fast, nimble and physical.
There is an old story about a little boy finding poop in his Christmas stocking, and being very happy about it. His parents ask why he's so excited and he said "It means there's a pony around here somewhere!" That was Jazz. He went into every situation thinking only good would come of it. It never occurred to him -his whole life- to fight, or be angry or ugly in any way. Over his life he would meet and raise several cats and every time he found room in his home and heart for one more. He was raised by Howitzer, and later helped raised Katey Lou. When he was 12 he raised Shamus, and at 14 he welcomed Fiona, an eight month old feral kitten who came to us from outside. At 15 he made room ungrudgingly for Sylvia, another young feral. He even tried to make friends with a mature untrusting cat we inherited from my by-then deceased friend Olivia. For every one, through his level-headedness and kindness he set the example saying "Welcome, we're cool here, no static at all." That means that over his life he was a good and major influence on five other cats.
Once older and at ease with you, there was no cat who abandoned himself to pleasure more, tummy included. When Howitzer finally died, it mellowed him, made him more interested in human companionship. He adored being brushed gently, and waited each night for me to go upstairs and read before bed so he could curl up with me and purr contentedly. My habit was to read on the bed sitting Indian style, and he'd curl up in the basket made by my legs.
And with his age-acquired wisdom, he became comfortable about switching locales. When I got him, I lived in an apartment, and then he segued into my first house. Then we moved to California where he loved the sun, and the balcony and hummingbirds. Then back to the house, and then to another house where we took care of my mom until her passing. He made himself at home everywhere.
In his last home, one where we took care of my mom, he made himself felt to her which was funny because she did not have a soft spot for cats, though she enjoyed watching them. The cats somehow knew she just wasn't that interested, and they rarely tried to engage with her. I still recall one funny evening, I was upstairs with the baby monitor at my side so I could hear if Mom needed anything. I'd just left her side, having set her up with a plate with a McDonald's Quarter Pounder with cheese and some fries. Over the monitor I heard something like this: "Well, hello there. What are you doing here? Are you going to sit with me? Stop that. No. No!" I bolted from the room, raced down the stairs to find my dear Jazz perched on the arm of Mom's recliner, his face practically in hers, doing his best to let her know that he'd like to try a bit of her burger. He must've been very tempted, because he never was food assertive, even with us, and much less with a lady who didn't take to cats. Very uncharacteristic of him, and just out of the blue. I still don't get it, why the burger, and why my mom? It remains an odd and fond memory.
Most of his life Jazz enjoyed good health, and maintained his lithe figure and athleticism. Late in life, as is common with many older cats, he developed chronic kidney disease. You cannot stop that condition, you can only try to slow it. Special foods? He wouldn't eat them, and he felt so poorly that getting him to eat regular food was hard. You can give your cat subcutaneous fluids to help flush out the toxins the kidneys no longer can handle, but he hated when we did it, actually crying, and I confess I had a hard time too, punching the thicker needle between his shoulder blades. And for whatever reason, he also developed auditory-induced seizures. No one could account for it, but I could clearly see the association: any time you opened a crinkly snack bag, the noise would make his pupils go huge and then he'd fall to the ground and have a visible shaking seizure. We took to opening chips or pretzels in closets or bathrooms, and he was fine.
As bad as the last months were for him, all his love of others came back to him. My husband and I loved on him more, but the other cats were visibly sympathetic. Shamus and Sylvia were kind but non-intrusive, while Fiona became a doting niece, hanging with him during seizures, and staying by his side when he wasn't feeling well.
It became clear he was suffering finally, and I had our vet come to the house to put my sweet boy to sleep. We sat in the front room, Jasper on my lap on some blankets and towels, while they ran the line to give him the substance that would bring his life to an end. I'd been down this road before with other cats, but somehow this passing was going to be harder than any other. All our years together, all the implicit understanding; he'd become like your favorite old shoes, that just fit perfectly. He had shared and knew everything about my young adulthood, my single years, my early married ones, all the places I'd lived and other cats that joined our family. He had a mountaintop perspective, and in leaving, my oldest cat and dear friend would be disappearing with all we had shared. I don't have much memory of his passing other than knowing I held him and spoke comfortingly to him as long as I could, and was trying not to upset him with my tears. Afterwards, as the vet and her assistant prepared to leave with Jasper in a blanket, when we opened the front door you could see a hefty snowstorm had begun, just like the one he had been born in. As they walked out into it, I imagined the snow falling onto my sweet boy, and stupidly, pathetically called behind them "Please keep him warm!"
Deezer, Buzz, Mumbles, Monkey-Man, Hoagie, Jazz, Monkey-Chops, Bud, Deeze... no matter how I remember you, know that I always will. Thank you for the love you gave to me, my family, and all the cats you left behind, and the peace you brought to our home. You were a beautiful catalyst, and I pray we meet again.
When I was looking for a new cat back in 1994, I didn't know I'd find a cat who possessed all this. I wasn't thinking of much except relieving the pain of my grieving orange cat, Howitzer and myself. We'd lost our big, black, senior cat LeRoy to cancer, and that's when I learned that cats really do grieve; Howitzer began calling in LeRoy's voice, sleeping in all LeRoy's old spots, and all but bursting into tears every day when I had to leave for work. Frankly, I wasn't sure I was ready for a new cat, but clearly Howitzer, who'd never been alone in his life, was, so for his sake I began to look for our new family member. I was enough of a sentimental sap to go back to the same animal shelter at which I'd found LeRoy 13 years before - the Morris Animal Refuge.
LeRoy had been still alive while our new family member was on his way to us, but of course we did not know that at the time. In southeastern Pennsylvania, we usually see our first snow around Christmas, and our last one in February. So it was an unusual occurrence, but for some reason it happened three years in a row; in 1993, 1994 and 1995 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania was hit by unexpected late season blizzards at the very end of March. 1994's was not the most spectacular, but it was the most important for me, because my best friend for a chunk of my life would emerge from it.
During 1994's blizzard, in a small concrete block backyard in South Philly, in a box covered by a plastic shower curtain and stuffed with old towels, a middle aged mom cat named Tiger was giving birth to five kittens. The backyard belonged to an older lady named Olivia who took care of homeless urban cats. Olivia could not get out into the backyard on March 28th when the storm hit, but she managed to do so on March 29th when she found Tiger with her kittens. She marked it on her calendar that the kittens had been born on either the 28th or 29th, and brought the mother and babies inside to escape the cold. Ten or twelve weeks later she brought the kittens to the Morris Animal Refuge in the hopes they would be adopted.
It was a long trip for me to go to Morris, but it felt like the right thing to do, and on the way I prayed that if there were a cat there as cool as LeRoy had been, I didn't want to miss him. I knew I would never find another LeRoy, but it seemed right to honor his memory by finding a new family member at the same place. I cruised around the cages and felt no bonding with any particular cat, though I would have taken them all home if I could have. Resigned that it was not to be that day, I turned to leave and there by the door was a glass display case I had missed on my way in, and inside was a litter of five kittens, all tortoise-shell, and one solid black one. I didn't want to be a complete fool and choose a cat just because he was black like the one I'd just lost, so I went round all the cages slowly once again, seeing a potential friend in every cage... the one who kept speaking loudly, the one next to it with half a tail, the one next to that with the beautiful eyes. I kept praying for a sign to let me know which cat was the one that should be entrusted to me. As much as I wanted to, I felt no special magic with any of them.
Finally I came back to this black kitten. I hated the notion of separating him from his siblings, but I knew regardless that they would be separated one way or another. Every kitten is cute, and he was no exception, with his black fur still thick with long fuzzy kitten undercoat. I asked to see him, and he was placed in my arms, which I held against my chest. The kitten rapidly scaled my front, perched on my shoulder, put his tiny black baby face in my ear and in a high teeny voice screamed "Eeeee!". I'd been looking for some cosmic signal, and it seemed clear enough now that I had been chosen. The feelings I had were startling; I was kind of weak with emotion, captivated by his need and directness, wanting to protect him. Fine, where do I sign? At the desk, I asked where he was from and was advised he had been brought in by someone local... they thought... hold on... and they looked it up in a book. My eye fell on the page and I memorized the address of the "donor" thinking someday I would stop by and say "Thank you, your black kitten is fine".
Three days later, on the way home after my references had been checked and I was approved, I brought the kitten in a large carrier to see my wonderful vet, an Israeli gent. He gave the kitten a thorough checkover, pronouncing him in good health. I asked him how much the kitten weighed, and lifting him up and down in one hand he responded "He is like a hoagie" leading to one of the many nicknames the kitten would acquire over his long life, "The Hoagie".
It was May and beautiful. I excitedly brought the carrier with the kitten onto the porch, and then went to get Howitzer so he could meet his tiny new buddy. It was crushing when (probably in fear) he hissed and walked away, but fortunately it was not any kind of omen. They would be best buds in 10 days, and Howitzer's grief over losing LeRoy blew over.
The new boy may have been a baby, but he was an old soul. The kitten established immediately that he was assertive but reasonable. The first night, I made him a small litterbox and put it in the carrier with him, and put the carrier next to my bed so we could see one another. No way I was letting a new unknown kitten loose in my bedroom on the first night. He cried over and over in his high voice and I kept trying to calm him down, speaking softly back to him, but it was apparent he wasn't going to stop. Exhausted, I finally brought him out onto the bed with me and laid back down. In short order, he curled up between my neck and shoulder and fell asleep and stayed there until morning. I should have known that a kitten accustomed to sleeping in a heap with his siblings could not be expected to sleep alone. This became a pattern over his life as well; he never asked for much, but when he did he was firm about it, and right.
He was a joyful kitten, constantly busy as only kittens can be. You'd catch glimpses of him running here or there. He explored every inch of the apartment and kept surprising me with his energy and high spirits. He once apparently managed to find and unwrap a tampon from my purse and I howled to see him run across the room with it gripped in his mouth like a mouse, the string a dangling tail. Howitzer might be eating, and the kitten would gnaw on his tail. He'd chase behind Howitzer or jump off the bed onto his back. He liked to be close to me or Howitzer, but he did not take to affection much - life was too interesting to sit still for petting. I was initially disappointed because I had hoped for a cat that liked affection, petting, brushing and such, but he was just young, and in future years the kitten would far surpass my hopes... it just took time.
Naming the boy took time too. I wanted to give him a name that suited him and many floated through my mind. Tabasco Cat was one. Talladega was another. These names suggest spice and action which indeed would have been suitable. He was an active, nimble creature, energy flowed through him. He spoke in italics, with emphasis, though his mouth was often closed. He'd jump up onto something and land nicely, saying "Brrrr!" through his lips, his special "effort noise". He was electric, and somehow the name of my old violin teacher came to me, Jasper. It was a fine old name and quickly morphed also into "Deezer" which sounded as electric as the kitten.
As a kitten and all through his life, Jasper was all about movement, height, electricity, leaping, scaling. He was dynamic, and almost ferret-like in his length and skinniness. He was all alley-cat, slow to let his guard down, running at the inexplicable sounds, and diving under the bed when there were visitors until he reached middle age and suddenly became more collected, and interested in new people. Once he knew you, he was terrific and actually a show-off. We had a contemporary railing going up the stairs that wrapped around the top floor. Jasper regularly jumped onto the railing and marched around, though it was perhaps only an inch wide, and he let you know about it too. My husband and I might be downstairs watching a movie when we'd hear a small thump followed by Jasper's peculiar announcement holler. My husband would turn to me with a knowing smile and say "He's mounted" so we'd get up and stand under the steps, looking up to the second floor at our furry acrobat up there parading around, and we'd tell him how cool he was. Jasper was beauty in motion, making no false moves. While other cats might scramble to get up on furniture, Jasper always overshot his target height-wise and landed neatly from the small descent. Jasper was the first cat of mine that did not come consistently when called, and when he disregarded you, you could tell he had thought it over and was a bit sorry, but something more pressing called him away. He was lightning, smooth and fast, nimble and physical.
There is an old story about a little boy finding poop in his Christmas stocking, and being very happy about it. His parents ask why he's so excited and he said "It means there's a pony around here somewhere!" That was Jazz. He went into every situation thinking only good would come of it. It never occurred to him -his whole life- to fight, or be angry or ugly in any way. Over his life he would meet and raise several cats and every time he found room in his home and heart for one more. He was raised by Howitzer, and later helped raised Katey Lou. When he was 12 he raised Shamus, and at 14 he welcomed Fiona, an eight month old feral kitten who came to us from outside. At 15 he made room ungrudgingly for Sylvia, another young feral. He even tried to make friends with a mature untrusting cat we inherited from my by-then deceased friend Olivia. For every one, through his level-headedness and kindness he set the example saying "Welcome, we're cool here, no static at all." That means that over his life he was a good and major influence on five other cats.
Once older and at ease with you, there was no cat who abandoned himself to pleasure more, tummy included. When Howitzer finally died, it mellowed him, made him more interested in human companionship. He adored being brushed gently, and waited each night for me to go upstairs and read before bed so he could curl up with me and purr contentedly. My habit was to read on the bed sitting Indian style, and he'd curl up in the basket made by my legs.
And with his age-acquired wisdom, he became comfortable about switching locales. When I got him, I lived in an apartment, and then he segued into my first house. Then we moved to California where he loved the sun, and the balcony and hummingbirds. Then back to the house, and then to another house where we took care of my mom until her passing. He made himself at home everywhere.
In his last home, one where we took care of my mom, he made himself felt to her which was funny because she did not have a soft spot for cats, though she enjoyed watching them. The cats somehow knew she just wasn't that interested, and they rarely tried to engage with her. I still recall one funny evening, I was upstairs with the baby monitor at my side so I could hear if Mom needed anything. I'd just left her side, having set her up with a plate with a McDonald's Quarter Pounder with cheese and some fries. Over the monitor I heard something like this: "Well, hello there. What are you doing here? Are you going to sit with me? Stop that. No. No!" I bolted from the room, raced down the stairs to find my dear Jazz perched on the arm of Mom's recliner, his face practically in hers, doing his best to let her know that he'd like to try a bit of her burger. He must've been very tempted, because he never was food assertive, even with us, and much less with a lady who didn't take to cats. Very uncharacteristic of him, and just out of the blue. I still don't get it, why the burger, and why my mom? It remains an odd and fond memory.
Most of his life Jazz enjoyed good health, and maintained his lithe figure and athleticism. Late in life, as is common with many older cats, he developed chronic kidney disease. You cannot stop that condition, you can only try to slow it. Special foods? He wouldn't eat them, and he felt so poorly that getting him to eat regular food was hard. You can give your cat subcutaneous fluids to help flush out the toxins the kidneys no longer can handle, but he hated when we did it, actually crying, and I confess I had a hard time too, punching the thicker needle between his shoulder blades. And for whatever reason, he also developed auditory-induced seizures. No one could account for it, but I could clearly see the association: any time you opened a crinkly snack bag, the noise would make his pupils go huge and then he'd fall to the ground and have a visible shaking seizure. We took to opening chips or pretzels in closets or bathrooms, and he was fine.
As bad as the last months were for him, all his love of others came back to him. My husband and I loved on him more, but the other cats were visibly sympathetic. Shamus and Sylvia were kind but non-intrusive, while Fiona became a doting niece, hanging with him during seizures, and staying by his side when he wasn't feeling well.
It became clear he was suffering finally, and I had our vet come to the house to put my sweet boy to sleep. We sat in the front room, Jasper on my lap on some blankets and towels, while they ran the line to give him the substance that would bring his life to an end. I'd been down this road before with other cats, but somehow this passing was going to be harder than any other. All our years together, all the implicit understanding; he'd become like your favorite old shoes, that just fit perfectly. He had shared and knew everything about my young adulthood, my single years, my early married ones, all the places I'd lived and other cats that joined our family. He had a mountaintop perspective, and in leaving, my oldest cat and dear friend would be disappearing with all we had shared. I don't have much memory of his passing other than knowing I held him and spoke comfortingly to him as long as I could, and was trying not to upset him with my tears. Afterwards, as the vet and her assistant prepared to leave with Jasper in a blanket, when we opened the front door you could see a hefty snowstorm had begun, just like the one he had been born in. As they walked out into it, I imagined the snow falling onto my sweet boy, and stupidly, pathetically called behind them "Please keep him warm!"
Deezer, Buzz, Mumbles, Monkey-Man, Hoagie, Jazz, Monkey-Chops, Bud, Deeze... no matter how I remember you, know that I always will. Thank you for the love you gave to me, my family, and all the cats you left behind, and the peace you brought to our home. You were a beautiful catalyst, and I pray we meet again.
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