Spunky was her name. She was a cat. Nothing fancy, just a gray, longish-haired domestic house cat that lived with my fiance. Those who have owned cats will understand why I say, “lived” instead of “owned by”, for one does not own a cat. One is simply allowed the pleasure of being regularly in the presence of the cat that graces you by occupying the same dwelling. I, of course, did not truly comprehend this at the time. Spunky, to me, was merely a collateral object that came with the total package. I was merely indifferent about cats in general. That is how it started, anyway.

She was rather unassuming as cats go. She didn’t make a lot of noise, seldom meowing, with a quiet purr that was felt under your hand rather than ever being heard. At times she could be skittish, especially during thunderstorms. This was due to the fact that she had spent the first six years of her life in the company of large dogs whose loud barking she never quite got used to. My wife told me that when she went to adopt her, she was under a bed where she spent the majority of her time, according to the people who were giving her away. She also had stubby front paws, having been declawed using an “old style” procedure. In other words, Spunky didn’t have a particularly grand life early on.

Perhaps that is why she was content to just be around rather than busily engaged in most of the activities people normally associate with cats, like chattering at birds, attacking the air, tearing around the house like a lunatic, tripping you up under your own feet, demanding to be fed, demanding fresh water, demanding attention, or demanding whatever else suited that particular cat-moment. She did have the napping part down however, though even then she tended to sleep with her feet underneath her, as if she might at any moment have to make a hasty retreat.

About the only time she really behaved cattish was when someone was talking on the phone. She would then bat incessantly at the coiled cord that stretched between the cradle and the handset. She would occasionally catch the cord between her stubby toes. This would invariably lead to a bout of frantic digging in the sofa cushions, her eyes suddenly kitten-like and full of glee. Don’t ask me how the two were related. I have no idea, but I did find myself looking forward to these moments simply because they were absurdly hilarious.

That was my first mistake. I can only assume that this interest in her alerted some sort of homing beacon in her head, for, as time went by, I would often find myself unwittingly petting her as she sat next to me on the couch as my wife and I watched TV. Most of the time, I would have no recollection of how she got there, or at what point I started petting her. It just sort of happened. It soon seemed unnatural to not have her there in the evenings. So now I sought her out on the rare occasions when she happened to be elsewhere. My wife was not at all jealous about this. She took it in stride, for she knew full well that you don’t choose a cat. A cat chooses you, and I had been chosen.

At least, that seemed to be the case, for I would often get up in the morning to find Spunky waiting outside the bedroom door, whereupon she would follow me to the bathroom and wait outside while I showered. She never “talked”, scratched at the door, or in any other way insisted that I acknowledge her presence. She’d simply curl up on the hall carpet and hang around, often not even looking at me.

One day, perhaps due to her disinterest, I began singing silly melodies in cartoonish voices using her name as the lyrics while I showered. At first, she stared at me like I was some sort of idiot, perhaps that being the case. But after a few days, she started getting up when I stepped out of the shower, and would come in and wind her way back and forth between my feet as I continued to sing while drying off. We became comfortable with this arrangement, and our first routine was born.

Of course, this only made matters worse, because one routine quickly becomes two, then three, and so on, until you suddenly realize that a good part of your day is spent in the company of a cat. This invariably leads to mutual respect, which leads to admiration, and eventually, love. The truth of this only becomes obvious upon reflection, for it is through remembering and reflecting that we truly come to appreciate the moment, as I was bound to eventually learn.

And so, Spunky and I went happily on, marching through time together. I hung a stocking for her every Christmas, filling it with catnip, cat toys, and kitty treats. We celebrated her birthdays. We enjoyed the seasons as they flew by, year after year.

Even though she was growing older, I couldn’t, or perhaps, wouldn’t allow myself to see it. But the day nonetheless came when I could no longer ignore the fact that she was indeed slowing down, that her hair had lost some of its sheen, that she napped more, and that she wasn’t always there when I turned around. Still, I largely chose to focus on enjoying our time together as much as possible.

And then the morning came when she wasn’t at the bedroom door. I went to look for her, and after a good hour of searching and calling, I finally found her lying under the dining room table. Her breathing was labored, her legs stiff. My heart pounded.

“Honey! I think Spunky’s in trouble!” I yelled frantically to my wife. We gathered her up in a blanket and headed to the vet. As we waited for him to check her out and give us the news, I could only sit and wonder how I had come to care so much for this animal, this “collateral object” that I had taken into my home. When at last he came out of the exam room, his face told me everything I needed to know.

My wife and I gently stroked her and told her it was okay as they eased her suffering. My mind tells me that she looked at me, but perhaps that is only the way I wished it to be. She closed her eyes and stopped moving. She was gone.

They offered to take care of her body for us, but I wouldn’t have that. I took her home. I lined a heavy, decorated box with a white silk scarf. I covered her in rose petals from our garden, and laid her to rest in a special place in the back yard. I am not at all ashamed to admit that I cried all the while.

Time does eventually heal all wounds, or it least makes them bearable, for eventually, a new kitty named Sootie chose to grace us with her presence. She is very much the penultimate cat. She chatters at birds, bats at the air, tears through the house like an idiot, is very vocal, and constantly demands my attention, especially when she’s hungry. But every so often, I will look down and find she has somehow appeared underneath my hand without my knowing it, and I am petting her. And I smile.