Kayli

 

                Kayli, the sun kitty, died on Saturday morning, just a few weeks short of 19 years old, which is pretty impressive for a cat. On Thursday, she spent the day in the greenhouse, negotiating the entire house, three cat doors, one low fence, and a chair climb up to her preferred spot in the sun on the planting shelf.  On Friday night, she basked by a fire until all of the heat had gone. The end came quickly, although we knew she was fading.

                She was about six months old when I found her, isolated with a nasty, drug resistant respiratory   infection, at the shelter. She was in her own cage, huddled far in the back. When I talked with her, she came forward slowly, and then pressed her head against mine, purring. That was her last purr for several months as we took her home and battled the infection. It finally broke on sunny afternoon in late November when we took both of our new kittens outside to explore the yard. While Lucy ran up the tree, Kayli faced the sun, eyes squinting, basking in the warmth. I will be your cat and you will be my people, she told us, under one condition: I go out.

                And so, she went out. She roamed the neighborhood for power nap spots, spending days on the neighbor’s porch (they put out a pillow as she grew older). She was trapped, not once, not twice, but three times in structures around the block because she loved to explore. She rode in the trunk of someone’s car all the way to McMinninville. Fortunately, they caught her as she jumped out and hosted a cat sleepover before she was brought home the next day. She sat under the Ark and accosted people walking by; she had a fan club in China for several years. It was not uncommon to see someone sitting on the curb, holding a conversation with our fluffy, flirting cat.  

                Kayli was a social beastie. She liked a potluck, a gathering of people, and loved a meeting. She would greet each person as they entered the space then sit in the center for appropriate worship. Online, she would wrestle the door open, then howl loudly, weighing in on whatever the pressing issue of the day was. There are countless council shots of her very fluffy tail waving across the camera as I tried to redirect her interests elsewhere.  She even liked to visit Mark at work on the way home from the vet, always on the back of my bike. Bike rides were better than van rides.

                We will miss this fluffy orange cat who was so engaged with the world that she helped read council packets and the newspaper; who slept on the foot of the bed because it was too warm to be too close, but moved into the pile of covers when we got up; who loved the sun and a fire and warmth on her face, as well as tummy rubs and rolling around on the fence, almost but never quite falling off. We buried her in front of the greenhouse, very close to the spot where she decided that we were her people.

Third Winter

 

Last week, there was some serious lobbying to go outside during class. The sun was out and the temperature was in the fifties, which is pretty darn nice by Oregon standards for early March.  I am often susceptible to pleas to read outside; I want to be out as much as the next person.

“We neeed to go out, Ms. Ellis,” they implored. “It’s so nice and you know Third Winter is coming.”

It’s true. Third Winter is coming. In the Willamette Valley we have First Winter, from November to late December, where the days are growing shorter and the clouds are low. But First Winter is improved because of Christmas lights which go on in mid-November and stay on until ….well, there are still some on now.  And there is Winter Break. And the hope of a snow and ice day. And presents. Then there is Second Winter, which starts when school begins again and is plagued by sniffles, colds, flu, and the end of the semester. It rains and drizzles and no one wants to go out ever. Not even the cat. It’s grim. But, the light is slowly coming back and the snowdrops bloom. We can handle it.  Barely.

 Third Winter is the worst. Early March teases us with dry, clear, warm days. Buds swell. We go out to read in the sun.  Gardeners clean out old beds, plant seeds, and monitor the soil for warmth and moisture. There is hope. Then Third Winter hits, usually the week of Spring Break. The sweatshirt you have worn every day all winter is dingy and unappealing, so you leave it home and shiver in the morning instead.  It’s cold and rainy and the clouds are low. There’s hail. Downpours. Creeks flood.  Anything that you foolishly planted out sits in the ground, dodging slugs, and refuses to grow. Third Winter is the worst.

This year, I have been struggling with this knowledge.  For some reason, I am ahead in the garden. I have turned and prepped four beds—the early peas and leeks and parsnips bed, the spring greens bed, and both potato beds.  The starts in the greenhouse are bursting with life. The peas, especially, are ahead of the growth curve, dying to be planted out. “It’s only four feet,” they call to me. “Four feet away, on the other side of the greenhouse wall, is our bed. You even put the strings up!”  Like a bunch of sophomores on a sunny Friday afternoon, they clamor for release.  It is perfect pea planting weather. But….there are no volunteer potatoes up yet, a real sign that the soil is warming. And, after  thirty years here, I know that Third Winter is coming.  We will wait. At least another week.

 

Revenge Pee

 

                Our cat is elderly. Her back legs are weak and her bladder is small and grumbly with an occasional bladder infection. Last year, we all gave in and put a litter box in the bathroom.

                Although she has always preferred going outdoors—under the Ark in bad weather—to a litter box, she is also the master of what we call the Revenge Pee.  This is the perfectly targeted pee (or poop) right by the door, or at the bottom of the stairs, or, once, in the middle of a laundry pile in the basement.  She occasionally indulged in Revenge Pee when we locked her in the house with a litter box because we did not want her roaming while we were gone for a few days, or when we did something else to cause her wrath.  It was always a statement.

                For the past month, we have been struggling with a variation of the Revenge Pee. We set up two litter boxes when her infection was bad. One in the bathroom and one by the front door, because she was peeing on the floor in an attempt to go out.  She really liked that, but I did not. So, I slowly moved the second box across the living room and into the bathroom. She moved with it. It paused over the heater’s intake grate in the hall for several days and then I moved it the last few feet. She showed her displeasure by peeing in the grate. I showed my displeasure by pitching her out. To clean up the mess, I stacked the two litter boxes in the bathroom.

                While we were gone, she came in, ate some crunchies, and went into the bathroom. Then, on her tired old back legs, she climbed into the stacked boxes and pooped. Mark thinks it was a sign she is ready to make peace. I am not so sure.