Along with three other sightless bundles of fur, the entity destined to spend 20 years of her life with me was born in the early morning hours of the first day of Spring: March 21, 1979.
Under cover of Mother’s mahogany desk in the far corner of the living room, the mother calico cat who gave birth had chosen our home as refuge for this momentous occasion. Technically not ours, she actually belonged to the neighbors who lived catty-cornered from us—though we too would feed her.
Apparently, she felt ours the safest haven.
My upstairs bedroom closed off for the winter, I was sleeping on the rollaway bed in the living room. Having heard a commotion earlier that morning, as soon as it was light, my parents and I sought out the source. Mother cat was fine. There were two males: one, an orange tabby, was dubbed Morris (after the popular cat food brand icon); the other, a typical gray shorthair, we called Mr. M (since my older sister had one just like him). And there were two females, both calico. Unfortunately, the runt was stillborn. But the other we called Callie for obvious reasons.
As my parents were selling our childhood home and moving into an apartment, it was past time for me to move out. Having always wanted a calico cat, I knew Callie would be mine.
She was long-haired and beautifully marked with her black half-moustache, her little half-chin beard, and her eye mask.”
We all moved in late May, so my sister took care of the three kittens while we were in the throes of that process. A month later, upon the occasion of my birthday, she brought the now three-month-old back to me.
We had always referred to the kitten as Callie during these three months. I was trying to think of a clever name—there was an obscure fiesta-like dinnerware line called Caliente—but it just didn’t seem right. Thus “Callie” became her official name.
Just a teenager, Callie was quite a handful. Able to jump very high, even up on china cabinets, I soon learned not to put anything on top of something she couldn’t see. I could not leave any flat paper surface, newspaper or notebook, lying about. For some reason she liked to “mark” them, even though her litter box was always available.
Of course the worst, as my dear mother would say, was when she was “doing the didos” or “hunting a husband” before I had her spayed. She also had a habit of wanting to dash out the front door. I lived one house away from a very busy street and had visions of her running out and getting hit by a car. She successfully ran out one time, and though I was able to catch her, I still have nightmares about it.
Uncommonly, but not entirely unknown, cats sometimes choose not to drink still water. My first apartment had a leaky tub faucet, and Callie delighted in swatting at the drip, then licking the moisture from her paw. Though I always kept a bowl of water next to her food bowl, she generally ignored it. Once in a while she would swat at the still water, causing it to ripple, and then sip from it, but she definitely preferred the faucet drip method. Every place I lived afterwards, I left a steady drip from at least one faucet.
She was long-haired and beautifully marked with her black half-moustache, her little half-chin beard, and her eye mask. I would delight in brushing her luxurious fur. Though she enjoyed it, her tolerance lasted at most 15 minutes. Her silken coat always carried a sheen that highlighted the black, orange, and white coloring I loved so much.
I never spoke Siamese, but I was fluent enough to know exactly when she wanted to be petted or fed, or needed a lap upon which to recline.”
Always a single-person cat, she tolerated no one except me, disappearing when visitors arrived. If I left to do an antiques show or go on vacation, I could determine the number of days by the “reminders” she left for me on the dining room rug. Once I returned—and thus forgiven—she would return to using her litter box.
We particularly enjoyed playing Hide & Seek, chasing each other and hiding in a sort of Ring-around-the-Rosie, circling from the kitchen to the dining room, on to the living room and then the stair hall. I would sometimes reverse, and startling her, it was much to the delight of us both.
I always thought she had some Siamese Cat heritage—never proven—in her lineage. She would purr, but silently. However, she could vocalize. I never spoke Siamese, but I was fluent enough to know exactly when she wanted to be petted or fed, or needed a lap upon which to recline.
She always slept with me, especially in the fall and winter. Starting at chest level, she would soon move towards my feet. I must confess to not turning often, as that would disturb her, and since I needed the warmth as much as she did, I didn’t care to upset her. Much like my twin sister and I did when growing up, she would delight in sitting on the heat register, of course.
Always healthy, Callie was only at the vet twice. The first time was to get her shots, to get spayed, and to get declawed (I was moving in with a roommate who had upholstered furniture and I didn’t want to have to pay her for any damage).
Now, beneath a glazed terra cotta obelisk, lie the remains of a bundle of fur, her eyes closed forever in perpetual cat nap.”
The second time was three months after her 20th birthday, when she could no longer climb into the tub to get her water. She was so very thin, having stopped eating a few days before. I can still see her in the back of my van, mewing softly, helpless.
Absolutely one of the hardest things ever in my life, I drove her to the vet’s office. Afterwards I drove to my mother’s apartment, and stayed about an hour, trying to compose myself. It was then I realized I had to go home to bury Callie in my garden.
Now, beneath a glazed terra cotta obelisk, lie the remains of a bundle of fur, her eyes closed forever in perpetual cat nap. The memorial, purchased from a now deceased friend, is from a long-demolished apartment building located on the northeast corner of 16th and Illinois Streets in Indianapolis. The still stalwart column, adorned with crockets (decorative flourishes) and fitted into a limestone base, is a fitting tribute to both lives. Though not of the Jewish faith, I continue to surround her monument with rocks and stones I find as a sort of ongoing memory.
Unlike my mother, who every time she lost a pet would swear she would never get another one (but always did), I have remained steadfastly loyal to the concept. It sounds as if I could not love another, but perhaps I just won’t allow myself to love another as I did my one and only Callie.
There will never be another like her . . .