LYNDA HALLINAN& SNUFFLES (RIP)
Then there was just one. The last cat standing. (Or in Minnie’s case, sitting, on our couch, nonchalantly licking her bum.)
In what is starting to feel like a case of columnist’s deja vu, I am again writing an obituary for a dead cat.
Here lies Snuffles (1999-2018), her headstone* could read. A grey ghost who loved dog roll, territorial scraps, a scratch under the chin, peeing on bath towels and barfing up fur balls under the bed.
For almost half my life, that longhaired layabout has been part of my cosseted coterie. Oh, the things she has seen! She outlived three long-term relationships, an ill-fated foray into internet dating, five gardens, a year in a Parnell apartment, life in the country and, more recently, the unwanted affections of fur-tugging toddlers.
I thought she was on her last legs last winter. She stopped grooming herself, started losing condition and stopped using the cat flap. I decided the time had come to put her down, and wept all the way to the local vet’s. Four hours later, I returned with antibiotics, a prescription for thyroid medication, a bald cat and a $400 bill.
Her monthly meds gave her a new lease on life. So much so that I’d started to refer to Snuffles as my cockroach-cat. The cat that shall inherit the earth. The cat that, having faced down seven years of my husband’s barely concealed contempt, wouldn’t even flinch if President Trump pushed his big red button.
My husband hates cats. He’d say that he doesn’t hate all cats, just the ones owned by his wife, especially the one – Snuffles – who crapped each night in a tray of lavender-scented litter in the corner of our bedroom. (I must admit, that would put a strain on any marriage, and I won’t miss waking to the smell of a freshly laid turd either.)
Meanwhile, my 6-year-old son is inconsolable. Lucas loved Snuffles. He loved the way she’d lick his hair, bunt his chin and dribble all over his pyjamas. She slept wedged in the crook of his leg, or on his shoulder, leaving a wet patch on the pillow. I once caught him stroking her in his sleep; it made a welcome change from his tendency to night terrors and sleepwalking.
Snuffles had a good run. Only a few weeks ago, she was still chasing shadows and chewing crickets, but when she stopped eating properly, barely licking the gravy off her turkey giblets or the jelly off her beef terrine,
''I sobbed too, until I found she'd left me one last memento... her last supper – a sachet of Applaws Tuna Loin (at $2.99 for 30g, it's more expensive than caviar roe) – regurgitated all over the bathmat.''
I knew that this time, there would be no stay of execution.
As I drove her to be euthanased on Tuesday, I remembered how, shortly after adopting her from the SPCA, I discovered that she had a favourite song. Whenever my ex-boyfriend whistled ‘‘Fly Me To the Moon’’, she’d meow along with him. I crooned like Ol’ Blue Eyes in the car but Snuffles was unable to muster a purr. It made me feel sad, then slightly stupid. I’d forgotten that she’s been as deaf as a post for the past two years.
Five seconds and a few millilitres of Pentobarbital later, she was gone. When I brought her home to bury her, Lucas got all tearful, while his younger brother gave her corpse a half-hearted pat then went straight back to playing War Robots on his iPad.
I sobbed too, until I went to the bathroom to get a box of tissues and found that she’d left me one last memento. While I was getting the kids ready for school, Snuffles must have staggered into the bathroom to regurgitate her last supper – a sachet of Applaws Tuna Loin (at $2.99 for 30g, it’s more expensive than caviar roe) – all over the bathmat.
Six months ago, I owned four geriatric cats. Six months ago, I was on the verge of cray-cray cat lady status. (Ask Google ‘‘How many cats is too many?’’ and it will direct you to a blog by veterinarian and IT entrepreneur Justine Lee, who recommends ‘‘no more than four to five cats, total. My cut-off for crazy is six cats.
After that, I think it’s medically unhealthy.’’) Six cats might be too many, but one – especially an elderly, snaggletoothed, snobby British Blue who tenses every muscle in her saggybellied body should you try to beg a cuddle – isn’t enough. I feel kittens coming on.
* Snuffles’ headstone is actually a hydrangea bush. I buried her beneath the hybrid hydrangea ‘Magic Amethyst’, with moptopped blooms in a feminine mash-up of lime and hot pink. Does a decomposing cat add acidity or alkalinity to the soil? I’ll let you know if their colour changes next summer.