But then my cat, who we've had for 18 years, started peeing blood and had to be put down. Of course since my car was all torn apart in my driveway I was unable to get to Pullman to say goodbye. Her name was Whiskers, and I figured it was only fitting to pay her some sort of tribute.
I met Whiskers when I was 5 years old at Vacation Bible School at the downtown E-Free church in Pullman. One of the volunteers from the church brought in a new litter of kittens so we could play with them (and inevitably pester our parents into adopting one).
I distinctly remember falling in love with one cute little tabby whose paws were white and had a star on her forehead. She was playful and soft and cuddly, and so of course I went home and begged my parents to let us get her. I'm pretty sure I convinced my sister to help me out, especially considering how rotten our previous cat was.
That requires a little explanation. Our first kitten was a little terror, and I loved it too. Largely because I could sick it on my sister and it would literally run her down and jump on her back. And considering my sister was about 2 years old at the time it wasn't too hard to take her down, even for a kitten. That cat came to a quick end though as it had a bad habit of taking naps in the road. So we were catless at this point.
Eventually my parents relented and called up the lady with the kittens. They had a Volvo station wagon and on the way up our incredibly steep hill the latch released on the hatch and the kittens, all locked safely away in their big kitty-karrier, went tumbling out and down the hill. I guess they rolled all the way down and through traffic, where Blaine meets Grand, and wound up safely on the other side.
Miraculously all but one of the kittens got out without a scratch. When she finally made it to the house the only kitten who had been injured was the one I wanted. In the midst of the chaos the tip of her tail had been dislocated and she was left with a permanent kink. My parents asked if we still wanted her, considering the kink, but I was certain that I did.
When asked what we wanted to name her my parents seemed fairly insistent on naming her Whiskers. We loved the name, and it only later came out that they just wanted to pass our first cat's name (and thus her license) on to our new cat.
And so Whiskers II came to live in the Swanson residence; we would go on to have numerous adventures. She soon became a renowned hunter in the family, bringing back snakes and mice alive, of course, so we could learn how to kill ourselves. Once or twice (probably more than that) my sister and I would let her in with her catch only to have it up and running around before we knew it was still kicking.
My mom soon came up with a rule that we weren't to let the cat in as long as she had any friends with her.
There were things that were distinctly 'Whiskers' as well. When she wanted out she sat by the door and stared at us, yowling if we ignored her long enough (or if she felt like it). When she wanted back in she jumped up into whatever window we could see her from then sat and stared at us until we let her in.
Or yowled at us if we were too slow or she felt like it.
There were spots all over the house that were claimed by the cat though: vantage points to survey her queendom both inside and out, and comfortable plots where she could regularly be found napping. I remember my mom's vain attempts to keep her from scratching the furniture, everything from scratching posts and sprays to custom made covers for corners on the couch. I think she eventually just grew out of it (which my mom was grateful for).
I remember my neighbor Johnny and I playing Vet with her, holding her by her paws and lowering her into the 'holding chamber' that was our hide-a-bed couch. We'd close the bed back over the top of her and decide what disease she had depending on how she yowled at us. We'd also put her on the end of the overhang on our front porch, her perch of doom. We thought she looked cool up there but she usually looked and felt more miserable than deadly at such heights.
We were a lot less cruel to her as we grew up, at least I was. My sister and mom both had episodes of throwing and or kicking the cat across various rooms and sets of stairs. Never intentionally, at least so I'm told, but she was a tough cat.
We knew she was tough when my sister finally convinced my parents to let us get a dog. Misha, a hyperactive Blue Healer/Australian Shepperd mix almost gave the cat a heart attack at first. Who this dog was that had encroached on her domain was a mystery to her, but she did know she didn't like it.
Thankfully for the dog Whiskers had mercy and never beat the snot out of her, though she certainly asserted her place. It was on one fateful day that Misha was headed out to our own Volvo station wagon to go for a ride that a neighbor's dalmation rushed across the street and rammed her under the car like a bolt from hell.
My mom screamed and we ran out, but before anyone could do anything the cat had darted out and positioned herself in between the dogs. That dalmatian didn't know what hit it but was taken aback by the ferocious little furball that had thrown herself into its path. Her standoff gave our neighbor enough time to come and collect it, not without a few scratches of its own.
Not to say that Whiskers ever fully accepted the dog beyond a benevolent tollerance, but she certainly took on Garfield's mentalitly: "no one beats on my dog but me."
When I moved downstairs in our house she would insist on coming into my room and sleeping on or under my bed, even if only for a bit. Often she would climb over me and stand on my pillow, peeking out the window from behind my curtains, her tail twitching as she watched whatever it was that caught her fancy. I usually grabbed the half of her that was still visible and startled her.
At night she'd yowl until I let her in, and more often than not be ready to leave after having inspected my room to her satisfaction. Both comings and goings required that I get out of bed, and I rarely appreciatet it.
Even when I went to college she always knew when I was coming home. It was a rare occasion to come home and not have my cat waiting for me on the sidewalk, yowling at my car and prancing up to me expecting to be picked up and held. She liked to extend her paws over my shoulder and rub her chin against my shirt as I bounced her up and down and petted her back. She would purr and close her eyes as she stretched her neck out and rested her head on my shoulder.
I'll miss her a lot.
The past few months she aged rapidly, going deaf and slightly senile but gaining a different level of curiosity and energy than she'd had before. I actually took some footage of her being old and ridiculous on the piano before she died. She became more of an attention hog in her later years and my parents finally gave in and started pampering her with wet food. She'd been a dry food cat all her years, outside of the occasional mouse.
Of course the dog would sit patiently and wait to lick the bowl afterwards, sometimes not so patiently and would get in there prematurely. This led to the need to put it on the piano bench in the living room for her to eat in peace, which of course led to spills as she would push the bowl in her attempts to finish her meal. My dad learned quickly and started putting books on the other side to stop that from happening.
Slowly she stopped hopping up in windows as much, or running around the house. She wasn't able to hear us coming or calling for her, and she got a little disoriented at times which led to some comical falls from various heights.
One of her favorite spots, an end table looking out over the garden on the side of our house sits empty now. I haven't been home to see it yet, it hasn't fully sunk in, but I do miss her already. She was a good cat, a great pet, and a lovely friend.
I'll miss you Whiskers, rest in peace.
