I named my cat after the Jimi Hendrix song, “Foxy Lady.” When I saw her little orange tabby furball self at the shelter, I said to her, “I wanna take you home, I won’t do you no harm, You’ve got to be all mine, all mine … Ooh, foxy lady.” But before too long I was tired of wasting all my precious time. She didn’t want to be all mine, all mine. Sigh … foxy lady.
I adopted Foxy to serve as a companion for our first cat, Gabrielle (may she rest in peace). I was a dog person without a doghouse, so a cat seemed like a good idea. I had trouble getting past the fact that our first cat was not a dog, so I got another cat. Surely with two cats I would become a cat person. I’d want pussycat embroidered pillows, kitty cat stationery, and a drawer full of cat-emblazoned undies. But I didn’t. I just wasn’t feeling the felines.
I resented the lack of jumping, drooling, and loving when I walked in the front door. I bristled at the condescending “yeah right” stares when I called “come here kitty kitty kitty.” I longed for a good old-fashioned game of nose-soccer, tail chasing, rolling over, and playing dead. I walked alone, fetched my own newspaper, felt no loyalty.
Then one day Gabrielle played dead, and she didn’t get up again. That’s not how the game goes. She wasn’t supposed to actually die. Cats are so melodramatic.
I had told her to “scoot!’ off the counter when my husband was cooking. She did scoot. Then she dropped ... and died. If you knew her better, you’d know she planned it so that I’d feel bad.
I did feel bad. I mourned for all our unfulfilled love potential. She was a nice cat. Decent, clean, law abiding. She never cared much for me unless she was hungry, but then I never worked to make her care. We cohabitated. I guess I thought there’d always be another day. Another hairball. Another chance to connect. I assumed we’d grow old and ornery together, we’d stop resisting, and spend our last days cuddled together in our favorite spot in the sun.
But she died before we got to the sunny spot.
Suddenly there was Foxy.
A sad little cat. Sure she didn’t lose her appetite or have any trouble sleeping, but I could tell she was hurting. Her meows came from an angry place. She had no one to lick her ears. No one to race around the apartment like a lunatic with her at midnight. No one to hiss at the pigeons with her. She was alone. Her eyes were a little distant. I worried that she wasn’t grieving well. She was lost.
Suddenly she was an underdog.
My cat was a kind of dog.
She needed me. I meowed back when she made her breakfast order. I meowed back when she made her dinner order. I talked to her when I cleaned her litter box. I carried her over to the window to meow at the pigeons on the fire escape. She (and the pigeons) looked at me blankly. I started calling her “my lady,” like my mother used to call our beloved childhood pet (dog), Rasher. I even used the soft genuflecting tone reserved for Rasher. I said “I’m comin to git yaaaa,” like it was a game not a threat. I dragged a stupid piece of fabric across the floor and entreated her to play.
Foxy wanted nothing to do with me.
She knew I had chosen the cheap group cremation for her friend and her nose was out of joint with me.
I bought bouncing mice, balls of yarn, organic treats, and spiked her scratchpad with catnip.
Nothing.
The less she responded, the harder I meowed.
