Eulogy to an Aristocat - RIP Duchess

I know I'll never get through this without sobbing, but I have to do it today while the memories are still fresh.

This morning, we lost our beloved pure bred lilac point Siamese cat, Duchess. She was 12 years old. We're both taking this pretty hard. Let me tell a little bit of her story.

We first met Duchess at the mall. We were newlyweds and we were in search of a cat/kitten. Originally, we were looking for a young adult, maybe a year old or so. I had hoped we'd find a Siamese, as that was my favourite breed, having had two previously. We'd been to a couple of animal shelters but couldn't see a cat/kitten we both agreed on. Then DH suggested we go to the mall and look at the pet store. Sure enough, not only did they have kittens, but Siamese kittens.

We asked to see the kittens. There were at least two on display, maybe three. One leaped over the other kittens and beat them to the door. She climbed up DH and started purring. Then she turned to me and climbed up me and started purring. That did it. We were both smitten. We looked at one of the other kittens they had, but it just didn't have the personality. This one was THERE. She was vibrant. As this was a Monday evening, we put down a deposit and came back for her on the Friday after work.

We were so excited to take home our new baby. I originally wanted to call her "Esmeralda" as when I'd read the "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" two years previously, I thought, "What a cool name for a Siamese cat." I remember talking to a friend on the phone the night we took her home and telling him about our new baby. Kitty was down at the end of the hall, and when I called her she came running; gamboling was more the word. She was all legs.

We took her to the vet the next morning to get checked out, and then we went to lunch. While sitting in the car eating our McDonalds, we said, "Well, if we're going to get a second cat, now's the time to do it." So, we went to the local SPCA and there was a little Siamese. She was obviously the darker markings, whereas our "first born" was the lighter. I picked up the little fur ball and said to DH, "What about this one?" And he said, "I can live with it." So that was how we added a second kitty. They meowed all the way home in their respective cat carriers.

When we got home, we opened up the carriers and let them meet. I put down food for them and let them go at it. The first born immediately started eating. The second one let out a cry, as it to say, "Hey! I want some, too." Firstborn, immediately put her paw on second born's head, as if to say, "Be cool, kid". To which, the second born literally had a hissy fit.

Now we had a problem. What would we call them? As I said, I originally wanted to call the first born "Esmeralda" but somehow, that didn't suit her; it suited the darker markings of our second born. So, the second born had a name: Esmeralda, but what to call the first born. I suggested "Duchess" after the mother cat in Disney's "The Aristocats" and because she was a pure bred. DH agreed, so that was how we ended up with Duchess ("Duch") and Esmeralda ("Essie" or "Es").

Duchess accepted Essie right away and wanted to play with her, but Essie wasn't so keen on Duch. It took about three days before she accepted Duch. By the Wednesday, they were sleeping together. That was it. From then on, they were siblings. They loved each other, yet could get on each other's nerves. I saw them "bitch slap" each other as kittens.

Having two cats - let alone kittens - was new to both of us. I'd never had more than one cat before, and neither had DH. It was fun. It's sad, but I can't remember a lot of the mischief they got into, but I do remember some stories. Notably, the time Duch climbed out on to the patio railing, stretched herself out and put her front paws on the window to the right, exposing herself to a fall of 13 stories. I'm glad it was DH that was home and not me. I might have freaked out and she would have plunged to her death right then and there. Somehow he coaxed her back down, all the while thinking, "Heather's going to kill me."

Duchess was a smart cat. Man, was she ever. Being the pure bred, she was also a feline jumping machine. I once saw Essie charge Duch and Duchess avoided Essie by jumping straight up in the air, about two feet. Ah, the joys of kitten hood.

Everyone - including pets - have their flaws. But not Duchess. Seriously. I can't think of a single bad trait she had. The worst I can say is that she could be stubborn and a bit proud, but those are good things. She was patient, she was loving as well as smart.

Like all pets, she had her quirks. Hers was what we called, "playing with dolls." She used to take her toys, carry them in her mouth (like a mama cat) through to the kitchen and dump them in the food and/or water bowl. I had to be very careful when I stitched that I picked up all my bobbins of floss afterwards, or she'd steal them, too. Many's the time I had to chase her around the apartment in an attempt to take back my floss, or it, too, would suffer the fate of her toys and take a bath in the water dish.

People used to say, "Oh, Siamese? I bet they're noisy." No. Neither of them were. Of the two, Essie was more vocal. Duchess had a very quiet meow. In fact, she hardly meowed at all. When she was one year old, we moved down to the U.S. for the first time. It was late August/September and the mallard ducks were starting to congregate beneath our window, two floors down. Duchess used to sit in the window and watch them, fascinated. Then we noticed she started "quacking." Seriously. She was walking around imitating the noise of the mallards. She wasn't meowing; she was quacking.

Eventually she found her voice. When she wanted to, she could turn on the full volume Siamese yowl. When we lived in a townhouse with three floors, she often could be heard at night in the basement "tuning up."

She was a perfect pet. When DH's mom died, it was Duch who climbed up on DH and started purring in an attempt to comfort him. She didn't go to me. She went to him. Somehow she knew exactly who to go to. Essie just didn't get it. I used to say that Essie was "brainless but beautiful," which is a fairly accurate description. I've often joked that she may have been deprived of oxygen at birth.

Essie and Duch took turns being top cat. Eventually, however, Duchess seemed to emerge as the dominant one. I guess Essie pissed off Duch one day, and I saw Duch grab Essie by the throat and smash her head against the floor a couple of times to teach Essie a lesson. But it would take Duch a LOT to lose her cool like that. She was very patient; always dignified; always a lady. She never took a swipe at us, of scratched us, or tried to bite us. EVER. I can only think of one time in all her years where she hissed. It was the first time she met a child: when she was four months old.

She became DH's cat; she favoured him. I was all right with that. They had a special relationship. He used to play with her with his keys. He would jingle them for her, and she would try to swipe them. Whenever she did, she would start doing the "Duchess dance" (as we called it) to demonstrate her superiority. The "Duchess dance" consists of kneading into either a person or some piece of furniture with the claws, while swinging the hips, in an attempt to show off.

They were our babies and I loved them dearly. I dreaded the day that I would lose either one of them. Being Siamese, I expected they would live a long time. One of my previous Siamese cats lived to 21. Being a pure bred, I knew that Duchess would probably be the first to go.

Everything was fine and I had two healthy (eventually three, but Hesperatu doesn't really figure much in this story) cats. That was until about nine months ago. Duchess - almost overnight - lost weight. I was concerned, but thought, "Well, she'll put it back on." I watched her to ensure she ate. She always was the more picky eater, so I tried to do what I could. She seemed to lose more weight. I took her to the vet and she was five pounds, down from the nine pounds when she was last weighed. The vet did a blood test and it came back clean: kidneys and liver were fine, and she didn't have diabetes. He did express concern about the lack of protein in her blood and hinted that it might be cancer and that she would need to come back for an x-ray to see what they could see.

Unfortunately, due to finances, I wasn't able to do the x-ray until last week. Up until that point, she was doing pretty well. Still eating, still peeing. True, she'd lost a step or two, but I put that down to the fact she was 11 years old, approaching 12. I didn't think it was cancer. I thought she just might be clogged internally. I did notice she'd had a problem going "poop" and added more fibre to her diet to help her go. I even upped the fibre and it worked. Ten days ago, she laid a ping pong sized ball of poop (sorry if that's too much information). But something happened after that. From then on, she refused to eat. I had to force feed her. I took her in for the x-ray and the vet said she was "bad off." She was dehydrated and was now down to three pounds. She was literally skin and bones. The x-ray showed that a lot of her organs were "fuzzy" looking. They weren't clear like the heart and lungs were. He gave me some antibiotics and I was told to bring her back once they were finished.

She cascaded downhill after that. Mom and Dad came round on Sunday evening to say "good bye".

By yesterday, she could barely walk. She dragged her hind legs around. Last night, she slept in the cat basket, which was balanced on my night table. At some point during the night, she moved and reached out towards me. I picked her up and took her into bed with me. I'm not sure what time that was, but it was still very dark. When I woke up about 7:45, she was gone. She was still warm, but she was dead. We sat with her for about three hours, reminiscing - looking at photos and videos we'd taken. We placed her body in the cat basket. She looked like she was asleep. I kept saying, "Wake up, Duch. Come on, wake up."

What killed her? We did, ultimately and I'll never forgive myself. This has hit us hard, and it's more than just losing a precious pet and companion. It's the guilt that we just couldn't afford to help her in her hour(s) of need. She's the innocent victim of our mistakes and she was forced to pay for our "sins." Naturally, there is no guarantee that if I'd taken her in to the vet right away that they could have caught whatever it was that was ailing her. But it might have. She never once complained, or showed signs of being in pain. She may have looked miserable, but more like she was fighting a nasty flu, not fighting for her life - until this last week.

Duchess, I'm so sorry. I hope you know how much we both loved you. I'm so sorry we let you down. I'm glad you're away from your suffering. You were the perfect kitty.

I sign off with her theme song, the title song from The Aristocats sung by Maurice Chevalier. You can listen to it: here

Which pets' address is the finest in Paris?
Which pets possess the longest pedigree?
Which pets get to sleep on velvet mats?
Naturalment! The Aristocats!

Which pets are blessed with the fairest forms and faces?
Which pets know best all the gentle social graces?
Which pets live on cream and loving pats?
Naturalment! The Aristocats!

They show aristocratic bearing when they're seen upon
an airing, and aristocratic flair in what they do and what they say!
Aristocats are never found in alleyways or hanging around the garbage cans where common kitties play. Oh no!

Which pets are known to never show their claws?
Which pets are prone to hardly any flaws?
To which pets do the others tip their hats?
Naturalment! The Aristocats!

Naturalment! Naturalment!
Oh, Naturalment!
The Aristocats

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Wax Museum...

You're just never sure what things will impact you for your entire life. I have three stories I'd love to share that have formed some sort of conspiracy (OMG. The spelling of that "c" word is pretty hilarious considering what I'm going to be writing about) to profoundly affect my life.

When I was about four years old, Mom and Dad somehow got the dubious privilege of taking some of us kids from church over to Victoria, BC for the day. One of our destinations was the Royal London Wax Museum. If you know the museum, you'll know there's a figure of Cleopatra bathing there in front of Julius Caesar. Dad, being the dutiful tour guide asked, "So does anybody know how she died?" None of the kids knew, so he said, "She was bitten by a snake."

Something happened at that moment. It was like some genetic memory switch had been turned on. I refused to get into bed that night as I was convinced - somehow - that there was a snake in my bed. I howled and set up such a fuss that Dad came in to see what was the matter. He pulled back the sheets to prove to me that my Mom was telling the truth that there was no snake in my bed. He then reaffirmed her orders to get into bed. I was "disinclined to acquiesce to their request" (that means "no") and continued my assertion that there was indeed a reptile hiding somewhere betwixt and between my sheets. I'm fairly sure I lost my case based on the lack of evidence on my part. Considering who the judge and jury were, I'm sure I couldn't have had a fair trial anyway. I should have launched an appeal. But I digress...

From that moment on, I have been irrationally afraid of reptiles (in general) and snakes in particular. I loathe them and despise them. It's something I've never outgrown and probably never will. I even get queasy watching nature shows, as I get so upset over watching some poor animal getting devoured by these vile creatures. Okay, wildebeest sort of don't count. They're too stupid to exist. "Oh, look! There's a pair of eyes swimming towards me in the water. I wonder if it will be friends with me." Um, no. Not unless you are thinking in the Hannibal Lector sense of it "having an old friend for dinner."

So that's the first thing. Here's the second:

In 1975, when I was eight, my parents finally gave into my years of, "Can we go to Disneyland, Dad? Can we go to Disneyland, Dad?" (Well, I'm not sure I really was that big of a pest, but I'm sure I did ask). We left on a Friday morning and drove down to Anaheim. I was warned that repeated questions regarding the arrival at our destination would not be tolerated and that we'd be there Monday. In the meantime, I was encouraged to stick my head in the books I'd brought along for the ride.

On the Sunday morning, upon waking, I was informed that our ETA had been adjusted and we would be arriving in Disneyland that evening. However, we would be arriving too late to go to the park. It would have to wait until tomorrow. I found this new change of itinerary satisfactory.

I know we spent two days at the park. I'm not sure what day we went on Pirates of the Caribbean, but it might have been our first. I don't think I'd heard of the Caribbean before (I vaguely remember asking my Mom where the Caribbean was as we were walking in) and I'm not sure if I'd heard of this attraction or not. Yet, something is ringing a faint bell about hearing about it on a Sunday night episode of "The Wonderful World of Disney" that featured a tour of Disney World in Florida. Something happened on that ride. It began my love affair with pirates. It's the only explanation I have for my love of pirates. One of my all-time favourite movies is "Captain Blood" starring Errol Flynn and Olivia De Havilland. So, yes, I loved pirates long before they became cool thanks to Captain Jack Sparrow and the success of the Pirates of the Caribbean movie franchise. I was so ahead of my time.

So, when DH and I started dating and I mentioned that I loved pirates, he asked if I knew that pirates were Templars. I said, "What's a Templar?" Well, thanks to Dan Brown and the DaVinci Code, we all know what they are. There does seem to be some evidence that pirates were, indeed, Templars.

So, that's the second thing. Here's the third:

One of my favourite books as a child (under eleven-ish) was "Heidi." This was before I read the "Anne of Green Gables" series. I'm sure I read Heidi many times. I was always fascinated by how Johanna Spyri described the beauty of the mountains of Switzerland. I loved to pretend I was from Switzerland, which I can only attribute to reading Heidi. Reading it made me crave cheese and milk as a child. (Who funded this book, the Swiss dairy guild?) Oh, and guess what my name is in German? Heide. No wonder I loved the book.

Now, here's where things get interesting. The Swiss have a legend of the founding of their country by some knights in white. This legend dates back to around the time the Templar order was dissolved in the first decade of the 14th century. If you look at the Swiss flag, there is a strong resemblance to the Templar cross. Also, the Templars were the first international bankers, and well, what's Switzerland known for? (other than cheese and chocolate?) Banking. Some very interesting coincidences.

So, there you have it. Templars and pirates and snakes, oh my. So that's it then. I'm off to commandeer a ship, "pick up a crew..., raid, pillage, plunder and otherwise pilfer my weasely black guts out." Who's with me? And guess what I just found out? There are no poisonous snakes in Jamaica!!! (but they do have constrictors).

Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!