I know I've said this, but contrary to what my cat-loving childhood friend says, I am not a cat person. That doesn't mean I don't like them...some of them, anyway. Well...one in particular.
Sometime in the summer of 2021, a large, fluffy all-white cat materialized on our patio. Literally. We had no idea where he came from but he seemed to think he lived with us. Even Ike, the schnauzer, accepted his presence in our lives. The cat -- typical of that species -- appeared to tolerate the three of us as if we'd moved into his territory. We were allowed to stay.
Eventually, we settled on a name -- Charley (as in Harper, our favorite Cincinnati artist) and he snootily deigned to accept that. Mostly, he came and went, sometimes disappearing for 2-3 days and just when we thought he'd left for good, he returned looking for food and scratches. He was seen around the neighborhood, sometimes as far as a mile away across the fields, showing up at a friend's house. The little Houdini slipped his collar regularly - it was once found by a passing driver and dropped off at our vet's office.
Slowly, he welcomed the opportunity to explore the house, favoring the couch or the bed in a spare bedroom. Over time, he became more and more comfortable indoors and spent most nights in the basement. He turned up his nose at a cat bed, so we made a box bed for him under the porch for the nights he chose to live outside.
When our beloved Ike died in August 2021, Charley seemed to sense we needed comfort and became an alternatively fuzzy white angel and devil cat, swapping out face licks with arm bites. Apparently, he mistook my husband for his mother, standing on his lap, kneading his legs and sucking on his shirt. (We learned this was typical of a cat who had been separated too early from his mother.) Fortunately for me, he chose his moments of loving me -- mostly when he wanted to eat or needed an ear scratch.
We tried various toys, most of which were completely ignored, except for castaway catnip-stuffed mice from his cat relatives in Cincinnati and Wisconsin. He was very choosy about treats and food, which meant we were constantly losing money. And the ones he really liked were subject to the supply issues of the pandemic.
It took him months to lower himself to use a scratching board until we doused it with catnip. He looked at us as if we were daft the day we produced a fake climbing tree. Really? He had real trees to climb outside.
Rides in the car were acceptable if he was in his cozy little carrier, seeming to know all roads led to the vet hotel, where he was treated to double condos and peaceful nights.
This went just fine for almost two years, during which time he developed a fast friendship with Bradford next door. The two cats alternated between Bradford's garage apartment and Charley's patio. Side trips across Grove St. meant visits to another home with more cats and the real neighborhood cat lady. It was like the days when our daughters and the neighbor kids would roam from house to house, hoping for a better treat from another parent.
If cats and dogs could live forever, we'd never have to deal with the pain of losing them. Our pets would grow old with us and eventually we'd all die together. But that's just a dream.
Then on Thursday, I talked to Charley through the upstairs window as I knocked down cobwebs and bugs from the siding of the house. He sniffed the dust bunnies, sneezed, and looked at me as if he was sure I was daft. A little later, I went outside to let him in and saw him sleeping on his side in the yard under a tree. Except. No. Not sleeping. He'd either climbed the tree one last time, fallen out, or been hit by a car and crawled home. I choose to think it was his final climb up one of his most beloved trees.
The past few days have been sad ones. We are still wondering what we should have done differently. But we know that Charley was living his own life -- free to spend time inside and out, to be free to roam his natural home. He knew he was loved. We even suspected he loved us. And boy, do we miss him.
Climb high, furball.
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