Grieving for Pets

When I think of my great-grandfather Henry Malcolm Scott, he appears in my mind as in a black and white photograph: wearing his usual short-brimmed hat, shuffling along on his old bowed legs, leaning on his cane, with Suzie by his side. Suzie, his black and white chihuahua, went with him everywhere. And though my grandmother, Ruby Scott Benton, did not usually allow animals in her country home, Suzie came right on in with my grandmother's father, sitting at his feet. Aloof and off limits to us children, Suzie knew her place, a step or two above us; she answered to no one but my great-grandfather. As a child reared in the country, I had been around animals all my life, but our dogs were usually Black Mouth Curs, dogs my father had raised since he was a boy: working dogs, cattle herders, hunting dogs. When they weren't working, they were family dogs--guards of our property, amenable to petting and play but not attaching themselves to one family member. Granddaddy's Suzie was the first animal I recognized as being a companion to her owner, always at his side, accompanying him on his short travels to the homes of his daughters and sons.

Over the years, Tom and I have had a number of dogs, three of them Black Mouth Curs that my father had raised, one a Catahoula Cur given to us by a rancher who bred these regionally well-known cattle dogs, and another dog, a little stray whom I named "Chiquita."  Chiquita, who loved following the cattle when they were being herded on the five hundred acre C-6 Ranch where we rented for four years, disappeared one day after a cattle round-up. The Catahoula Cur, whom I called "Lagniappe," also disappeared--probably stolen; Catahoulas were a very popular breed where we lived, and a well-bred one could go for two or three hundred dollars. We cared for these dogs, but we especially loved Moreover, the Black Mouth Cur who lived with us the longest. These dogs, however, remained "cattle dogs," working dogs, guard dogs. They did not sleep in our beds or puddle on our floors.

Benton and Moreover

But then Odyssey entered our lives when Mary-Margaret was nine years old. We remember the year very well because it was the year we all vacationed for two weeks in San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Mexico, knowing that when we returned, Mary-Margaret would take home the little gray-brown tabby kitten she had chosen from a litter. It was the summer of 2001.

Odyssey became the queen of the house, even after Persephone appeared on our doorstep in 2002, seriously injured. Then Pluto appeared in 2003, another tiny kitten dumped near our house in the country. He showed up in the middle of the night, during Mary-Margaret's sixth-grade slumber party, welcome entertainment for some very excited little girls.

While we lived on our 23 acres of land in Harris County, Georgia, Moreover roamed our yard and the woods that surrounded our house; the cats had the house and the basement. Black Mouth Curs cannot be trusted with cats or any non-canine pets, though perhaps some puppies can be trained to tolerate other family pets. Moreover would sweetly herd little children around our yard, watching over them, but he would kill a cat. In fact, both Pluto and Persephone had to be rescued from Moreover when they wandered up to our house as very tiny kittens.

In December of 2003, we moved back to Texas and bought a house on a lot in a town north of Austin. After a few months, Tom fenced in an area in the backyard for Moreover, and we decided to let the cats wander in and out of the house into the side yard and front yard. Pluto occasionally wandered out of our yard; Persephone and Odyssey stayed within our property or on the large wrap-around porch.

Pluto in Belton, TX

Moreover died in 2007, in the middle of our move from Central Texas to Decatur, GA. While staying with a family member as we looked for a home with a yard suitable for a large dog, Moreover was the victim of a terrible misunderstanding. We bought a house with a fenced-in backyard, just what we had wanted for Moreover, but now only the cats remained.  City ordinances required that all pets be kept on property or on a leash, and one of our neighbors complained loudly if any cat wandered onto her lot.  Pluto, however, was an escape artist. We eventually had to place an electric wire on top of the privacy fence to prevent him from leaving the backyard. Not only were we trying to be lawful; we aimed for neighborhood harmony, too.

By then the cats were six, five, and four years old, and each had developed very definite personalities: Odyssey was top cat; she and Pluto often groomed one another and took naps together, but a grooming session could quickly turn into a spat that Odyssey always won. The grooming session was often a precursor to Odyssey's supplanting Pluto from any resting spot Odyssey decided she wanted. She knew her special place, however, was beside Mary-Margaret.

Pluto, aptly named, was our devil cat. Aloof and self-contained, he nonetheless sought affection periodically, especially at meal times, when he would rub against my ankles to remind me that it was time for the day's treat--tinned cat food in the morning and in the evening. Every year we could expect him to attack the wooden finger-puppet manger scene that I made when the kids were little. The tiny wooden Jesus would often be tumbled from his cradle, but the angel with fluffy wool wings bore the brunt of Pluto's ire. The angel was always the first casualty; not long after I unboxed the little wooden finger puppets and arranged the manger scene, I would find her on the floor, in very unangelic disarray. Over the years, her wings disappeared, chewed off by a cat who hated Christmas.

Pluto plotting an attack on the manger scene

Persephone was our "scaredy-cat," a cat who early in life had met with violence. Very affectionate with us, she often disappeared when strangers were around. Loud noises panicked her. When Tom and the kids took her to our veterinarian a day after her arrival on our front steps, the vet whispered to Tom that he shouldn't let the kids name her; he was afraid that her injuries might be fatal and that those injuries were probably the result of human cruelty. But I determined to call the kitten Persephone--she had been to hell and back, and she survived. Neither Odyssey nor Pluto was fond of Persephone (or "Persey," as we call her); Persephone was the outcast cat, the bottom of the totem pole. The other cats didn't bully her excessively, but they did let her know her place. She accepted that designation with equanimity but she could hiss a warning if pushed too far.

Our cats had become important members of our family. They could be loving, and they could be annoying, but we tried to accommodate them. Pluto continued to spray his territory even though he was neutered. I learned to leave the herbs on the outside edge of my garden and to pick the herbs on the inside of the herb beds, avoiding territorial marking. When Odyssey began peeing down the floor vents in our hundred-year-old house in Belton, TX, I put my nose to every vent to identify the soiled ones, scrubbed those thoroughly, and placed light furniture over the most popular squatting places. Then I made sure to put a kitty litter box in the laundry room, an old enclosed back porch, for use on rainy days when the cats were hesitant to go outside. When Persephone hid under furniture during thunderstorms, we comforted her. We cleaned up hairballs and cat puke. We had cats on our furniture, cats in our beds, and cats on our desks while we worked.

When the kids went off to college, the cats remained.

cats on my desk

Odyssey on Mary-Margaret's bed right after Mary-Margaret went away to college

 That's when I began truly to understand my great-grandfather's love for his little dog Suzie. The cats were my companions. I had given up full-time teaching, I was tutoring part-time, and I was dealing with a serious case of empty nest syndrome. The cats kept the nest warm until Benton or Mary-Margaret could return for a visit on a weekend or a holiday. The cats demanded my care and attention. Tom is an early riser, but the cats never clamored for a meal when he got out of bed before dawn. They waited until I arose and would then come running, mewing for breakfast. Pluto would paw at the cabinet door where he knew the cat food was kept. He even managed to open it a few times. In the evenings, Pluto once again would lead the way in demanding dinner. He would begin his quest around 5 p.m., and if I didn't immediately open a tin of cat food, he would lie on the kitchen floor while Tom and I prepared our dinner, waiting for another opportune moment to remind me of my duties to the feline residents of the house.

The cats survived every move we made, from Georgia to Texas, from Texas back to Georgia, and from Georgia to Louisiana--long trips that would have tried the sanity of less resilient animals. When Tom moved to southeast Louisiana after taking a new job, I remained in Georgia for nine months with the cats. They comforted me on many lonely nights. When I moved to Louisiana, I drove alone with the cats yowling on the back seat in their premium, soft-sided cat carriers, while I struggled to stay awake after exhausting weeks of preparing our house for a depressed real estate market.

Pluto and Odyssey resting after the move from Georgia to Louisiana

After two years in Louisiana, we had our habits. The cats would pester me for breakfast as soon as I came into the kitchen in the morning. After I fed them, they would wander outside if the weather was warm. Odyssey and Persephone slept on the patio, moving into shade as the sun rose. Pluto would often nap on a bench on the front porch. Except for Pluto's occasional forays across the two streets near our house, the cats stayed close to home. Odyssey would follow me into the yard when I was gardening. If the day turned too warm, she would retreat to the cool brick floor of our sunroom. As she aged, she sought more and more human contact. When I sat down, she would quickly run to jump in my lap, snuggling her nose under my arm or inching up my chest to place her paw on my face. When I entered a room where she was resting, she would vocalize a soft mew, letting me know she was there. We were aging together: the old humans and the old cats.

And then, last week, Pluto and Odyssey disappeared within less than two days of one another. We first thought Pluto's disappearance was the result of his wandering. Tom drove around the neighborhood looking for him, with no luck.  I always checked on the cats at night, noting where they were sleeping--in the summer, Pluto on the front porch, Persephone and Odyssey on the patio, on a table or the shelf of a garden rack. And they always came when I called in the morning. When Odyssey disappeared, between 11 p.m. and 5 a.m., I knew that something was very wrong. No longer agile, she always stayed close to the house.

Tom and I checked the local shelter, talked with neighbors, posted fliers on our mailbox, and walked all over our yard and the empty lot next door. The disappearances were mysterious. There was no sign of foul play--no fur left behind by predators. Large dogs in the neighborhood sometimes escaped their yards; one tried to attack Odyssey in our yard one evening. Though Odyssey had her back to a tree with her claws fully extended, ready to protect herself, she would not have won that battle without help. The dog was so intent to get at her that we had a difficult time chasing him out of our yard.

A neighbor told us--too late--that his cat had disappeared in a similar mysterious manner a month ago. We exchanged flyers about our lost pets, and then he added that he had seen a coyote crossing a highway near our neighborhood. We may live in town, but there are wooded areas throughout our neighborhood and creeks with bushy banks that serve as pathways for wild creatures.

Unprepared for the grief that overwhelmed me, I especially missed Odyssey. She had been my daughter's chosen pet, a tangible connection to a past when my children were still at home. My daughter loved that cat. I loved that cat. I walked around our yard, calling for Odyssey, knowing that the action was futile. Once, startled, I imagined her lying on the brick floor in our sunroom. Another morning, in a partial dream between sleeping and waking, I saw a gray shape, a coyote, pacing the woods at the edge of our yard. On two separate evenings, I walked around our house, shining a flashlight into the crawlspace under our raised house. I called for her and cried. At night, I would look out onto the patio, hoping to see her again where I saw her last late at night, stretched out on the patio table.

Persephone was also sleeping on the patio that night, flopped on a side table under a sunroom window. Where she was when Odyssey disappeared, I don't know, but for a week she has hardly ventured past the patio. She has always been a timid cat, so it's difficult to draw any conclusions from her behavior. But when she sits on the patio, she crouches, ready to jump up at a moment's notice. She follows me into the house. I lock her in at night. I brush her fur and try not to think of the more outgoing cat who demanded our love and attention, who leapt into our laps as if they had been created just for her, who would stretch her paw up to pat our faces, probably saying to herself, "Mine."

Odyssey, 2011

Odyssey 2012

last photo of Pluto, 12 July 2013

last photo of Odyssey, 12 July 2013

Persephone, 24 July 2013