A Streak of Tears

The woman who was to be my wife came with two cats. My eyes lit up when I first saw them, which probably earned me some points. It certainly raised my already sky-high estimation of Eva. Simply put, I've never met a cat lover I didn't get along with.

Nor have I met a cat I didn't love, or who didn't love me. Admittedly, sometimes it takes some time for the cat to realize it loves me. But give me two days with anything of the feline persuasion and I'm golden.

Eva's two cats couldn't be more different. B.B. (short for "Bug-Butt", because she used to run around like she had one up there) was an undersized kittenish cuddle-slut embodying absolutely everything cute about cats. Streak, named prosaically for her markings and her tendency (as a kitten) to move like lubed lightning, was an altogether different beast: regal and aloof, she doled out affection on her own terms, and only if she judged you worthy of it.

I was not worthy, at least at first. A previous boyfriend of Eva's had played more than a few rounds of "let's scare the cat", which gave Streak a surly disposition, particularly towards anything male. With Eva watching, I got down on hands and knees and ever so slowly approached, holding out a hand for Streak to sniff. She stood there stoically, consenting to let me pet her for a few strokes before lashing out with a barbed claw. I withdrew hurriedly and tried again later. And again. And again. Before too long, I'd won her over and was rewarded with the kind of deep-throated purr normally heard on more mechanical objects. Like Harley-Davidsons.

Another conquest. Two of them, actually, because Streak was a long-standing litmus test for relationships with Eva. (I don't count B.B: you win her affection by looking at her.)

Eva's not a hundred percent sure when Streak was born. It was either 1989 or '90, she thinks...well before she was transferred to Vancouver. It was on the left coast that Streak proved herself a devoted mouse-ripper and connoisseur of cockroaches. I hasten to add the vermin were not a result of sloppy housekeeping but rather a function of piss-poor pay: to live in Vancouver on what Eva was making automatically relegates you to the Downtown Eastside, one of Canada's least charming neighbourhoods (unless you consider underage whores and endemic drug use charming). At any rate, for some time it was Eva and Streak against a hostile world.

Then came B.B. Eva rescued her, pathetic and tiny, from a shady pet store-cum-kitty mill and brought her home. Her arrival activated Streak's every motherly instinct: despite having been spayed years before, she let the kitten suckle. The two have been inseperable ever since. Streak served as mentor to the kitten (I still think of B.B. as a kitten, even though she's fifteen or so herself now), teaching her many things, some of which she'd have been better off not learning.

For instance, Eva had one of those touch-lamps next to her bed. You know the kind, with three settings: dim, bright, spear-your-eyes-out-of-your-head-Mommy-wake-up-and-feed-us. Streak knew, and taught B.B., the power of three...tap...tap...tap. Mommy would wake up, tap the lamp off, and a few minutes later: tap...tap...tap.

Streak would only drink water out of a glass on the coffee table, and that glass had to be pink. Put water on the floor and she'd splash it around contemptuously; put it in some other colour of glass and she'd die of thirst before she'd deign to drink.

Shampoo intoxicated her. Freshly cleaned hair was a Streak-magnet...you'd be inundated with tiny ticklish kitten-kisses.

Her biggest culinary joys were limp French fries and vegetable thins.

Intelligent she was, eccentric she was...the final adjective to describe our grey elephant has to be tough. She had tough skin, for one thing; in her younger years she actually enjoyed light to moderate whack-a-cat. But more than that, her demeanor shouted toughness: don't mess with me, you. Don't mess with my B.B., either.

Streak seemed ageless, eternal, unchanging. Until the last few months. Tux was the first to sense something: he whined piteously at us every time Streak appeared. I don't speak Dog, but it sure sounded like Mommy/Daddy, a member of the pack is hurting. For her part, Streak--who has always hated dogs--actually would let either of ours get right in her face without the slightest reaction.

Things devolved from there. Lately, Streak gad taken to spending pretty much all her time curled up in her chair downstairs, hardly eating or drinking. When she seemed to forget how to use her litterbox--when we observed her jumping off the coffee table and landing with a horrible awkward thump--we were certain it was time to send her on.

We didn't want to. What we wanted to do was to turn back the clock a few years. Sadly, we don't know how to do that. And so we gathered our Streaky-cat up today and took her for a short car ride to our vet's. She miaowed pathetically, but beyond that there was next to no fight in her. The same cat that would have made you pay for putting her in a car a couple of years back just laid there, trembling slightly. I could have done without the miaows...every last one sent a jab of guilt straight down my gullet, not to mention Streak's huge eyes fixed on me, imploring. Where's my house? Where's my B.B.? Where am I?

Eva got out of the car on shaky legs and went in to make sure they were ready for us. They were. She came back out, gathered Streak up by the scruff of the neck, carried her in and put her on the table. Streak gave one last little scratch, then simply laid still. The vet came in and explained the procedure: a sedative injected first, then, when Streak was "beyond knowing her circumstance", the actual lethal injection.

Streak didn't even seem to notice the injection. Or the vet, for that matter. My heart broke a little then. This wasn't, couldn't be the same Streak. Our Streak would have torn this guy a whole new throat.

While we were waiting for the sedative to take effect, we asked whether B.B. would likely follow her life's companion anytime soon. The vet softly told us that many people wondered that, and it had been his experience that on the contrary, the surviving cat generally flourished. "Cats are not sociable by nature," he said, "and there are often little frictions between cats that you don't see."

You haven't seen Streak and B.B., I thought but did not say. The only friction between those two happens when they're cleaning each other.

After several minutes, the vet affixed his stethoscope to Streak's chest and listened. Her heart beat remained strong, and she was still looking around a little. We petted her. I thought I detected the tiniest purr, but that was probably wishful thinking. Still, she seemed a long way from sleep.

The vet injected her again. Within a minute, she vomited--very hard to watch, let me tell you--and almost immediately after that she fell asleep. Another needle.

Streak died as she had lived: tough to the end. The vet actually had to go and get a second dose of that lethal concoction because after ten minutes or so Streak's heart was still beating. "Strong heart in this old girl", he said. How could I tell him that her heart was the only thing still strong? How could I tell him that it would remain strong even after it finally stopped beating? How could I tell him it was my heart I was worried about?

After some interminable time, our Streak gave up the ghost. I actually felt a little better after she'd gone--the kind of better you feel after you've done a hard but right thing. But that's only on top. Underneath, I'll be mourning our plushtoy for a very long time to come.

R.I.P. STREAK BREADNER 1989(?)-2007

BEAMED FROM THE BRIGHT CATTERY IN THE SKY

(Michael Hatwell, The Cat Magazine)

"praedilecta Sappho ibi nuper ascensa sic loquitu"

In case you have been wondering

Just how I am getting along

In my new surroundings

Or worry whether I have learned to cope

With the easy rhythm and pace

For which this place is renowned

Then listen: I have been chasing little mice again

Sweeter, lighter, infinitely more fragrant

Than any I ever brought into the bedroom

For your pleasure

In the old days.

That having been said,

I wouldn't for all the world wish you to infer

That they stint the grub up here:

Admittedly

The celestial fish are not especially exciting

(Their natural zodiac ripeness has had to be homogenised for the general run of feline palates)

But on the plus side

The nice cat-lady who comes round,

All gowned in blue (my favourite colour)

And with glory crowned,

Pours out a warm and creamy whiteness

That is literally

Quite heavenly.

Someone usually remembers

To cut my claws

And tickle my ear

So that side of things is catered for,

One might say,

Adequately enough.

I think of you sometimes

Certain that you will come one day

To take me on your knee

And talk to me the way you used to.

When that day comes I shall let you know

Loudly and unambiguously

That things round here have finally begun to go

Really very well indeed:

I shall add to ordinary space and time

My own particular dimension

Of thick, soft-throated sound.