All my children

Like sisters, children are where you find 'em. Didn't have any sisters to start out with, didn't have any kids either. But you pick some up along the way, if you keep your eyes open. Some, of course, you don't expect. Like when you have to mother your own mother.

My stepdaughter lived with us off and on when she was growing up. During her last period of residence, she came with a cat. Naturally, she left without the cat, and we were stuck with it.

The cat had to be the most neurotic creature I have ever seen. I love cats. I've lived with several in my life. This one was just plain weird.

She spent the first year of residence teaching us what not to do. She communicated her wishes with various bodily emissions. Strip the bed to clean up after her a few times and you would learn: Use only Fresh Step cat litter; don't even think about looking for something cheaper.

She spent the next year teaching us what to do. She liked to have her meals on time, so someone really had better be walking in the door by 5:30 or there'd be hell to pay.

She would never sit on your lap, never let you go anywhere near a good belly rub, but she did like to be brushed. The only problem, of course, is that she never stood still for the brushing, constantly weaving and and moving out of range of my arm. Once she realized that my arm wasn't that long, she'd come just close enough to let the brush touch her, but never close enough to make it easy for me.

She did not like to be held. Over the years, she adjusted enough to being picked up that she wouldn't actively fight it, but at the first opportunity she would leap out of your arms. No cuddling from this one.

Except in the last couple of years. At some point, she formed an attachment to My Prince that allowed her to sit on the arm of his chair. After some months, she began to just sort of lean against his leg. Last year, she actually got into his lap. And, once she started, she did not stop. She became a constant presence in his lap or on top of whatever he was working on.

Sadly, this cat had been declawed. Not just the front claws--the back ones as well. She could never go outside of the house. For years, her routine was to spend the morning on the south side of the house, looking out the windows. In the afternoon, she would move to the north side of the house and lie next to the sliding glass door. Other cats might come to visit, but she could only see them through glass.

She never seemed to be interested in getting out of the house; we didn't have to shout "watch the cat!" any time we went out the door. Except in the last year. My Prince reported that he had found her walking in the back yard. I refused to believe it. He had apparently left the patio door open just enough for her to squeeze through. She must have had a wonderful time, walking on grass, looking at the world in a new way. But he gave a shout, and she ran back to the house.

Feeding this cat was always a challenge. She was more than a picky eater. She was a two-year old. She liked ice cream and ranch dressing. If we had hamburgers, she wanted a hamburger. She ate cheese. She wouldn't touch milk unless it was left over from cereal. If this sounds like we fed her improperly, then please note that she didn't handle most cat foods very well.

We were constantly cleaning up the barf. She threw up everything: dry food, canned food, treats. But not hamburgers. Not ranch dressing. It was always such a thrill to walk through the den, barefoot, and feel that cold, icky barf under your foot.

Because of her chosen mode of communication (bodily emissions), we had to make some adjustments in our living. We could not leave the bedroom door open lest she crap on the bed. So it stayed closed. Which meant that the steam from the shower eventually led to mildew in the closet. Clothes and shoes were ruined, and we still could not open the door.

For the same reason, we also had to keep the couch and chair in the den covered in plastic. Over the years, there was a running battle between the cat and My Prince to see who would win: would he manage to keep her off of the furniture, or would she she pee on whatever he put there to keep her off of the furniture? Generally she won. I, however, am smarter than the cat, so I just put boxes on top of the plastic. She couldn't find any place to squat after that. But we also got really tired of moving the plastic and boxes whenever we wanted to sit in the den. For the past year or so, we haven't even bothered.

This cat was a challenge to be sure. Eventually the whole family was urging us to get rid of her. They were all aggravated with the stepdaughter that she wouldn't take her cat back and let us live our lives in peace. But we couldn't bear the thought of harming the cat. She was an innocent in all of this. I really think that something must have made her be so skittish early on, some trauma, some lack. And she was beautiful--in a mongrel, splotchy sort of way. All you had to do was look at her face and see those green eyes and be lost.

We never quite knew how old she was, but as best we could all figure, she was somewhere between 18 and 20 years old. Ancient for a cat. No wonder she started making little groaning sounds a couple of months ago. And then in December she started wobbling. Not much, just a lack of balance when she would try to jump on the table or something. She started sleeping in weird places--like her litter box or next to her food. We found her in the bathroom a couple of times, although we'd never known her to go in there unless she were checking up on us.

Yesterday, she lay down next to her food, and she didn't get up. I had to go home for a bit in the middle of the day and was shocked to see her. I tried to give her food and water, but she couldn't take it. I petted her. She could move her head enough to make sure that I scratched under her chin. She even purred a little. I left to come back to work. When I called home later and asked how she was, all My Prince could say was "She's in heaven." It's what he had planned to say to his daughter to help her accept the fact that the cat had died. I didn't expect him to use those words for me, but they nearly did us both in.

Poranji was a mess. She was a trial by any definition of the term. But she was a sweet and loving cat. And the gentle touch of her paw was always a reminder that there was one creature in the world who needed you to love her even when she wasn't being loveable.

I can take my house back now. Toss the plastic. Remove the boxes. Open the doors. Begin to repair the damage. But I'll miss the little thing.