On a good day she was Mr. Chops (yes, Mr. Chops). On a cranky day she was Boss Tweed. Most days she could be Cha Cha, Pumpkin, Muffin, Sweet Knees, Puss Cat, Kits, or (my personal favorite) Puffinswitch. From one hour to the next, she might take on a whole host of names, but to anyone other than my wife Susan and me, our cat was known as Chabo, named after Chabo the Wolf Baby, a character in a Lemony Snicket novel. For more than eleven years, Chabo was an integral part of our family. She was also my first and (thus far) only cat. And it took a good bit of time for her to become that.
In the summer or fall of 2001, Chabo showed up in our yard. Because of her coloring—she was gray, brown, and white, a diluted calico—she blended into the scenery and was nearly invisible on our wooden deck. For months Susan and I assumed she was someone else's cat, just an occasional visitor to our yard. We were slow to catch on to the fact that she rarely left. One day in December we were eating outside when the kitty emerged from the hawthorn bushes and began meowing ... incessantly. Her message was unmistakable: "Feed me, stop ignoring me, resistance is futile." Susan insisted we either care for the pussy or take her to the pound, and after some hemming and hawing, I relented. And I immediately fell in love.
Chabo perfectly suited our lifestyle. Susan and I work full time and travel frequently. Chabo was fiercely independent and neither required nor demanded much attention. Other than being fed, she mostly wanted to be left alone ... and only occasionally wanted love. Oh, and she unequivocally wished to remain outside and, in fact, became most upset when we brought her in. Of course, Susan and I took the kitty to the vet's for checkups and vaccinations, and we treated her against heartworms and other parasites. We also had her spayed. Or, rather, we tried to do so. When Chabo was under anesthesia, the doctor discovered a scar and realized that she had already been neutered.
Chabo was a creature of mystery. We never knew where she came from or even how old she was. Because she was so tiny—she never weighed much more than eight pounds—Susan and I at first assumed she was a kitten or, at most, one year old. In hindsight, I am certain was at least four or five years old when she entered our lives.
A turning point in our relationship with Chabo occurred in September 2005 when we evacuated ahead of Hurricane Rita. It was the first time our kitty had been caged, and she did not react well to the stress of being on the road for twelve hours or (once we found a place to wait out the storm) spending time in a makeshift kennel with other cats and dogs. From that point on, Chabo was a needy girl, and after a second evacuation (for Hurricane Ike in 2008) and a little aging, she became accustomed to spending more time indoors.
Chabo endured the typical ailments of aging—tooth and gum disease, diminished eyesight, and kidney disease—but it was her loss of hearing that put her most immediately in danger. She had long ago stopped exploring beyond the backyard, but visiting cats sometimes ambushed her. She learned to sleep inside and eventually reestablished her backyard territory, but her kidney disease could not be reversed, and her last few days were not pleasant. Chabo left this earth fiercely, as she had lived. I'll not dwell on the painful details, but Susan and I decided to have our kitty put down rather than endure endless medical procedures.
Five days after Chabo died, a small package arrived in our mailbox. Inside was a small heart with an imprint of her paw. It's the kind of token I once might have scoffed at, but on the day it arrived, that tiny paw print provided a tangible reminder of a sweet animal I missed horribly.
A good friend told me,
"Your first cat is always the most special because she teaches you to love
cats. Then, you are forever a
possession of the cats in this world." That remains to be seen.
Right now I am possessed by only one cat in this world. As I
grieve over Chabo, I am reminded of a sonnet by Gerard Manley
Hopkins, one of my favorite writers:
Spring and Fall
to a young child
Márgarét,
áre you gríeving
Over
Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like
the things of man, you
With your
fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the
heart grows older
It will come
to such sights colder
By and by,
nor spare a sigh
Though
worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you
wíll weep and know why.
Now no
matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s
spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth
had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart
heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the
blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
