She was born somewhere in Chattanooga, probably, and came to us as an engine block kitten - found by some old friends when they popped the car’s hood to find out what, exactly, was making that weird racket all the way home. Immediately adored by Pyr-mix Greyson and grudgingly tolerated by the late Spain the Cat, Quinn was eventually treated fondly by Lucy, as well - when our husky/shepherd mix joined the family about a year later.
Quinn semi-famously became The World’s Most Expensive Free Kitten because oh, she had issues. Besides the usual kitten/cat stuff, she developed a degenerative joint condition that required daily meds - plus a kidney/bladder problem that called for pricey prescription food. Then, of course, came the cancer. A couple of months and six thousand dollars later, I think we (me, plus you folks who were kind enough to chip in for the GoFundMe) bought her maybe one more month that she might not have had otherwise. All I can do about that is sigh and appreciate that extra time. It was good time. Up until 2-3 days ago, she was very much herself.
The downturn came suddenly. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that it wasn’t the way she stopped eating, or the way she moved more and more slowly; it was the way she was too weak and nauseous to greet the neighbor cat at the storm door (as she’s done daily for years now). That’s when we knew it was time.
I made the call. We made the appointment for here, at home. Now the vet has come and gone, and so too has momma’s little monster - Her Royal Highness Harley Quinn Greasemonkey Stinkfoot the First.
I hope she enjoyed her time with us, as much as we enjoyed having her in our lives.
Hey, you want to hear a ghost story?
I realize this sounds like a violent rhetorical transition, but please, bear with me. I’ve told this story before, at least the first part of it - so I know some of you have already heard about The Ghost Cat.
But now there’s more to tell, so here’s the whole thing.
Right. So. My husband has never believed in ghosts. Indeed, he’s long considered himself a paranormal EMP, short-circuiting anything unusual so that nothing unexplained ever happens in his presence. But then we lost Spainy (the ancient eldercat) a few years ago - right before we moved into our present house… at which point, he was forced to reconsider.
Let me explain.
See, for the first year we lived here, my husband’s job sent him out of town for a week every month, leaving me alone with the animals a lot; and since the other human in the household wasn’t present, it was very easy for me to notice - and not write off to a husband’s wiggling - that something small-cat-sized was climbing into bed with me at night.
The visitor definitely wasn’t Quinnie. Quinnie was practically dog-sized, for one thing*; and for another, she was usually present and ensconced before the unseen bed-thief arrived.
One night in particular, I was still awake with the nightstand light on - lounging around late, reading on my phone. Quinn was out cold beside me, snoring away, when I felt the then-familiar “thump” of something landing on the foot of the bed. It stomped around to the side where Quinnie snoozed..
Quinnie shot awake like something had startled her.
She whipped around to deliver a sharply pissy hiss, made eye contact with something otherwise unseen… and suddenly relaxed like, “Oh, it’s just you.” She yawned, stretched, purred… then went smugly back to sleep in the spot that had belonged exclusively to the dearly departed eldercat for almost two decades.
After a few months of these visitations, I finally told my husband about what was going on in his absence - and the dear fellow lost his shit because it’d been happening to him, too. He’d been steadfastly reassuring himself that it was just his imagination, or me doing some weird kicking in my sleep, or Quinn on tip-toes. But no.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t me. It wasn’t Quinn. And it definitely wasn’t either of the 80+ pound dogs who never bother to get on the bed, anyway. (The House Bears both get too hot for snuggles with blankets.)
After a year or so, the mystery visits petered out - and until a few months ago, I’d just assumed that the ghost cat had moved on, or gotten bored with us, or respawned elsewhere - who knows. But then early in March, I think - after we’d realized something was wrong with Quinn, but before we knew what it was - the ghost cat came back.
I realize it kind of sounds nuts, but that’s why - even at my most elated and optimistic! - I never fully trusted the vet’s assessment of “remission” despite the good bloodwork and the vanished (initial) mass. Because the ghost cat was back.
And therefore, when we found out that the lymphoma had abandoned Quinn’s stomach but infested her intestines/kidneys…well, I understood why our spooky little friend had returned.
(For a relative value of “understanding” and/or suspension of belief, I guess.)
I said at the top of this post that our late senior feline “grudgingly tolerated” Quinn, and that’s both true and misleading. Spain the Cat never gave a damn for other animals in general, but over time she and Quinnie achieved a companionable (even friendly) relationship.
When Spain died, Quinnie surprised us all by taking it the hardest.
My husband and I talked for awhile about adopting another cat-friend for her, but having four animals in a small house had been frankly a lot (especially with the eldercare routines of fluids and meds and cyst drainage)… and we felt like a little breathing room would be okay - not least of all because I was still alone for a week every month, and Quinnie had her dogs. She seemed content to lean on them.
At present, her dogs seem a bit confused, but they’ll be okay.
As far as silver linings go, Greyson will be far better off without Quinn… than Quinn would have been, if we’d lost him first. He dearly loved His Kitten - but here in his senior years, His Cat has annoyed the bejeezus out of him with her Menacing Affection and Bitey Demands for Attention.
After the vet left, he sniffed around a bit and went outside to nap on the deck.
Lucy joined him shortly thereafter. She liked Quinn just fine, but they were never especially close. Honestly (and a little oddly, but sweetly) she always liked the little old lady cat best. As a friend once put it: Boss bitch recognize boss bitch, and Spain was the bossiest and bitchiest of them all. Lucy gleefully, instantly bent the knee the moment they met, without a second’s hesitation.
If you know Lucy now, that probably cracks you up. She’s uh, not the sort to defer to anyone or anything else.
Anyway, as you’re probably aware (if you’re here, reading this), I tell stories for a living - so here’s the one I’m telling myself today: Spain the Cat spent 20 years in our company, and she’s been halfway keeping one eye on the household ever since she left us in 2019. When she saw that her bratty little sister was headed for that bright white light which awaits us all… she rolled her eyes, sighed, and swung back around to pick her up.
It’s a nice story. For all I know, it’s even true.
So hail, little travelers - and lead on, dearly departed eldercat. Show Quinnie the ropes, will you? Feel free to bring her around for a little visit, every now and again. We’ll save you both a spot on the bed.
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The dearly departed eldercat was 20+ years old and down to about six pounds by the time we acquired Quinn - though she’d shrunk down to < 5 by the time we lost her. Quinn was still nearly 15 pounds when she passed. There was never any mistaking the two for one another.