My Fritzy

Fritzy died on Sunday, February 10, 2000. We found him lying on the rug in the front hall, at the bottom of the stairs, in the sunshine. He was lying on his side, his head stretched out, his legs crossed, his tail in full mast position as though he had been walking along and just tipped over. I think he was waiting for us to get up so he could say good bye but Sunday is our day for lounging in bed and he just couldn’t wait any longer. He was my best friend for 15 years. I could talk to him about anything and everything. And he was such a good listener. No matter what I complained about, he understood. He never tried to talk me out of anything I threatened to do. He gave me the benefit of the doubt whenever it seemed I might be wrong about something. He let me believe that I was so very wise in my reckonings, that there could be no other who was wiser. He never reminded me that I had to keep in mind both sides of the story or that I was being childish if I wished that someone would get hit by a bus. He consoled me when I felt beat up by the world. He totally ignored the tears that would soak his fur whenever I cried all over him. He would offer his head to be scratched whenever I felt like nobody loved me. His name, of course, was Fritz. Just Fritz. No lengthy list of pedigreed handles for him. I reserved the right to call him Fritzy whenever I was feeling particularly affectionate towards him, which was pretty much all the time. He was named, natch, after Fritz the Cat of 60's comic book fame, because he looked like him - black and white and grey with stripes, especially on his marvellous raccoon tail. How were we to know that this cat would be as far removed from his namesake as it was possible to get. It would be like naming a hamster after a pitbull. Fritz had an expression that was all-knowing and serene. There were so many times when I looked at Fritz and saw so much wisdom and experience that I would have to turn away. I was and still am convinced that he was a Buddhist monk in his last life. We got him as a kitten in 1985. My husband at that time was not a cat lover. Far from it. It was not his fault, though. He had grown up in the West Indies where animals were kept for a purpose -- either destined for market or as scavengers which could keep the yard free of vermin. He felt that animals did not belong in homes but were better off in their natural environment. I was never able to make him understand that thanks to humans, cats no longer had a natural habitat other than as a household companion. By comparison, I had always had a pet as a child. A series of cats that came and went as I grew up, each and every one of them with names and special places to sleep and bowls with their names crayoned on the side. After the years in college when a pet would have been impractical and expensive, I longed to feel fur against my skin again, to feel a rough tongue on my hand, to have a little soul that depended on me as I depended on it. And so, one day in September, 1985, I decided that the time had come for my son to have a cat. Off we went to the Humane Society and instantly fell in love with the little fellow who came to the front of his cage to meow and lick our extended fingers. He curled up in my son's arms and went to sleep thus telling us that we were the ones for him. And so it would be. He had been found wandering the streets and so his name, if he had ever been given one, was not known. He was all of about 8 weeks old. His fur still stood out at right angles to his little body giving him an gawky, knock-kneed look. He had large green eyes that never blinked as he regarded his new owners and from that moment we knew that we were his. There was nothing that we wouldn't do for him, starting with the insertion of the identification microchip that the Humane Society was just introducing into Ottawa. On the drive home that day, my son rode in the passenger seat holding a little bundle of fur which squirmed and wriggled and made us both so happy. A few weeks later, we took him back to the vet to have him neutered. This was a condition of the adoption but did cause some friction in the household as my husband used the occasion to rail about man's cruelty to animals. Not content to keep them as pets, man also had to deprive the poor animal of its god-given right to sexual pleasure. We agreed to disagree, my husband and I, particularly as we watched the little fellow struggle to walk the day he came back from the vet, still groggy from the anaesthetic. "Criminal," said my husband. "Criminal and cruel. How would you like it if they did that to you?" "Poor Fritzy," said I. "Come here. I'm sorry, sweetie. But you'll be ok. You'll see." My husband stood, saying nothing, regarding Fritz long after I had put the cat back into his basket. Fritz stared back, his green eyes unblinking. My husband made a sucking noise with his mouth, the kind of noise one makes when confronted with a sad situation about which one can do nothing. We were making progress. At that time, we had a sun porch with glass walls and roof, and a brick floor that heated up nicely even in January. Fritz found it the second day he was with us. A chaise longue in this sun porch had a vinyl cover that got nicely toasted by the winter sun and became his favourite spot for his after-snack recline. The fact that ants lived in the cracks between the bricks was a bonus and although I have never heard of insects being wary of cats, it wasn't long before there were no ants left in the sun porch. When this fact was pointed out to my husband, a "Hmph" was his reply. He allowed that it was too cold for ants anyway and that they would undoubtedly be back when summer came, but I could see that he had a grudging respect for the little furry guy. Fritz was without doubt the most energetic little cat I have ever seen. The living room was his playground of choice. The fashion of the time was to have furniture arranged in what was called a conversation pit. As advantageous as this was for entertaining, it was made to order for Fritz. It meant that there was very little space between one piece of furniture and the next. And even if there was space, it was just a little chasm just begging to be jumped. He would spend hours leaping from the back of one chair or sofa to the next, from table top to table top, going round in circles, his little claws propelling him from one to the other. After a while, the tops of the chairs and sofa were becoming fuzzy as though they had been attacked by Velcro while we were sleeping. We were unable to keep him out of the living room due to a house design that had few doors and none where they were needed most. My husband was none too pleased to see the sudden aging of our furniture and saw fit to remind us all of this whenever the occasion arose. I opined that perhaps the little guy was lonely and it might be best for all of us if we got him a playmate. My husband could hardly believe his ears and could not be convinced of the logic of the plan. My son, however, was unlike his father in this regard and saw the logic perfectly. He was all for going down to the Human Society right then and there to see if we could find another kitten. Since this was a Monday, I thought it best to wait until the weekend to see if either the idea would grow on my husband a little or he could convince me of the fallacy of the plan in the meantime. Neither happened. So, given the fact that the vote was two to one in favour of adding to the family, there was nothing to do on Saturday but get in the car and go pay a visit to the Humane Society. We found a little orange tabby with sad eyes, a very long tail and no name who intimated very quickly he would dearly love to come home with us. He became Bugsy, the origins of which I am now unclear, and ingratiated himself into the household in no time flat, becoming fast friends with Fritz almost instantly. They were similar in age and we discovered that not only did Bugsy keep Fritz company while we were away, but he had a penchant for the same living room sprint that Fritz favoured. So instead of keeping Fritz away from the living room, we now had Bugsy jumping and leaping and cavorting with Fritz up and down the chairbacks, up and down the curtains, under the rug. It was nothing short of miraculous how they could play hide and seek for such long periods and still pretend to be so startled when the other bounced up behind them suddenly. Things were not going well in the campaign to convert my husband to a cat-lover. Not only had the companion plan failed to win him over, it seemed to harden his position that cats were a nuisance and all they did was tear up the place. Not to mention the odour that arose from the bottom of the basement stairs whenever one of them emerged from the litter box. My husband said how one such a tiny creature could create such a stench was beyond him. Not only that, he had to get up earlier now to allow time for brushing the fur off his work trousers. It was in February of the following year that things finally started to turn around for Fritz and Bugsy. My husband came down with a severe case of the flu and was forced to stay at home and in bed for several days. I continued to go to work and left him in the capable hands of Fritz and Bugsy, instructing them to take good care of him in my absence, and not to do anything that would cause him to get upset. Upon arriving home from school at the usual time, my son went upstairs to visit his father and see how he had fared during the day. It was with some astonishment that he glanced into the bedroom to find his father dosing and Fritz curled up at his feet, sound asleep. He pulled the door to and left them alone. The first news to greet me upon my arrival home was that Fritz and Dad had made peace and were sleeping together. Disbelieving, I glanced into the bedroom to find my husband awake and reading. There was no sign of Fritz. The news that the cat had come to keep him company was disavowed by my husband. Of course, the cat had not been in here. Why on earth would the cat have come in the bedroom? He knows very well he would not be allowed on the bed. Besides, how would he know I was even in here? And so it went. Fritz became the physician cat. Whenever someone was sick in bed, Fritz would somehow know it and would pad his way to the bedroom and onto the bed where he would stay, all day. He would occasionally leave to use the litter box or to get a small snack, but he would always return and curl up at the bottom of the bed. He would never demand food at such times nor would he ask to be petted or played with. He seemed to know that his services as a caretaker were needed without being asked and never once shirked his duty. My husband finally acknowledged that Fritz was not just your run-of-the-mill pussycat and he got into the habit of saying good morning to Fritz when he came downstairs. After a while, he would even feed him when it became apparent that Fritz was appealing to him personally for food. Not too long after this, it became apparent that Fritz was my husband's cat. The minute my husband sat down in the family room to watch television or lay on the living room couch to listen to the stereo, Fritz was never far behind. He would lay claim to my husband's lap for the duration. The fact that this bony lap could not have been the most comfortable place in the world only emphasizes the bond that Fritz had formed with him. My husband almost never stroked him at these times and did not encourage him in any way, except he did not put him down. If my husband stood up to get something, Fritz would jump aside and await the return of the lap. My considerably more cushy lap was always his second choice. We finally reasoned that either the cat had homosexual tendencies or that my husband was feeding him goodies when we weren't looking. Fritz was not afraid of anyone or anything. He was a fearless hunter and sadly we found many bird feathers around the back door during the warm months of summer. Mostly robins, I fear. He brought us a few of his treasures from time to time but we did not encourage him and scolded him without fail. I dare say that our scolding did nothing to curtail his bird hunting instincts but only to make him more secretive. He continued to bring us mice, however, and while it was difficult to see such tiny things being hunted as though they were big game, I couldn't find it in my heart to scold him, particularly as he had heard me say just how much I hated having mice around the house. Visitors were a treat for Fritz. He revelled in the attention that inevitably came his way when he strutted into the living room, his tail aloft, his eyes huge and dark in the light of the fireplace, knowing full well that he was being seen to his best advantage. The "Oohs" and "Ahhs" of the company were music to his ears and he brushed against every leg in the place, returning to those legs whose owners had also reached down to admire his gleaming fur and to tickle his silky ears. He would finally sit in the middle of the room looking from one face to the next while deciding which human should receive the ultimate gift. Then he would prance daintily towards the winner and leap without effort into the chosen lap. Nine times out of ten, it would be a male lap. Nine times out of ten, the recipient would be totally astounded while the wife would be hard-pressed to conceal her feelings of rejection that Fritz had ignored her coos and clucks and not so subtle invitations to rest on her lap. It was also not uncommon for visitors to want to take Fritz home with them when they left. He charmed them completely and throughly with his easy going nature, his total absense of fear of anyone and anything, his willingness to assume any posture you would want him to assume. My son soon learned that Fritz was a willing neck warmer. Marcus would pick him up by the upper legs and holding him thus, lift him over his head and down around his neck, Fritz' head and front legs hanging down one side of my son's head, his hind quarters and legs down the other. He would lie like that, quite comfortably, until you tired of having him heat up your neck and took him down. Never once did I see him squirm and ask to get down. The few times I tried to put Fritz around my neck ended in frustration for both of us. I did not have the arm strength to hoist him in the dignified manner to which he had become accustomed and he probably found the slope of my shoulders not to his liking. In any event, my son was the only one who could wear the cat. Fritz saw me through the sudden death of my husband in 1991. For a while, he stalked the house, a trilling "merr-ow" echoing in the empty rooms, calling to the owner of his favourite lap. Through it all, he was a steadfast friend, always available for consultation, no matter what the time of day or night. His sleep was a frequent victim of my need for companionship. He never complained when his bird hunting plans were sabotaged by my more pressing need to have him keep me company or when his food dish was still empty at suppertime. Sometimes he would jump down from my lap and walk towards the door. I would say something like "Oh, Fritzy, don't go." He would stop, turn around and look at me as if to say, "Chill, woman, I'm just going to the loo. I'm coming back." And he always did. When I met the man who was to become my second husband, Fritz was, I think, very relieved. He probably had nightmares about living in a man-less house for the rest of his days. John was a little surprised, I think, with the attention being paid to the cats, not being used to pets and in fact, being allergic to cats. But when it was made clear that any full-fledged member of this family had to acknowledge Fritz as top-dog, if you'll pardon the expression, John rose to the occasion and declared his lap to be cat-friendly territory, not that he had a lot of choice. We moved in 1998 to a house with a swimming pool and the requisite 6-foot chain-link fence surrounding the garden. The neighbours on both sides of us have very large dogs so we were quite relieved to know that the cats would not be able to get out if we put them in the back yard. One day after we had released the cats into the back yard, we were called to answer the front door bell. On opening the door to the visitor, we were shocked to see Fritz strolling up the path towards us. "I thought you put the cats in the back yard?" asked my husband? "I did," I replied, "Why?" "Well, come see," said my husband and pointed to Fritz now washing himself on the front steps. We were astounded and at first doubted that he had actually been in the back yard at all. He must have escaped out front at some point, we reasoned. There was no other way for him to have gotten from there to here. We vowed to get to the bottom of the mystery. The same scenario was repeated time and time again over the next few days. We would stare out the window at the cats in the back yard until we grew tired of watching them stretching and lolling about. The minute we turned our back, it seemed, Fritz would escape. It wasn't until weeks later that we finally caught him in the act. I was the one who first realized that we were about to see the Houdini act and called excitedly to my husband. Together we watched as Fritz climbed the chain-link fence, hooking his claws over the wire, scaling the 6-foot vertical fence in a matter of seconds. Once at the top, he managed to get all four feet on the top railing and from there leapt to a rise of ground on the neighbour's side of the fence, shook his fur to put it back into place and strutted off without a glance behind him. The exercise was making a lean, mean climbing-machine out of him. Not that he had ever been overweight, but suddenly, he was all muscle and looked far younger than his 13 years. When he wanted out, he would often choose to be let out the back door rather than the front simply because I think he enjoyed the climb. He wasn't a heavy cat, ever, so this climb probably was not too hard on his nails. Our other two cats could not follow Fritz because they were both much heavier and the weight on their claws was just too much. During 1998, John and I started taking regular evening walks around the neighbourhood. One evening we set out as usual on our usual walking route and were chatting quietly together. One of us noticed a tinkling of bells. We turned around to find Fritz padding quickly along the street in our wake. When we stopped, he stopped. When we started again, he started along behind us. Sometimes the bells would stop and we would look back to see that he had stopped to sniff at an enticing blade of grass or just to sniff the air. We would wait until he realized we were waiting on him, and he would start up again. And so it went -- walking slowly, Fritz following, his little bell tinkling with each step. He followed us all around the entire route right back to our driveway, up the front walk and through the front door. This scenario was repeated several times. He seemed to love walking with us. However because we felt obliged to slow down when he accompanied us, sometimes when we would sneak out of the house just so we walk with a decent speed. Other times he would creep up behind us once we had started walking, waiting hopefully while we decided what to do. If our route included streets with increased traffic, we would take him back home and lock him in to prevent him getting run over when we were not looking. I don't think he was very happy with this although he hid his displeasure well and had forgotten it completely by the time we returned. Fritz liked to be wherever we were. If we were gardening, he would lie down in the dirt and watch. A lap when its owner was working at a computer was also a favourite place to be. The kitchen was probably the best of all. He was guaranteed to get attention by sitting as near as possible to the feet of the cook. The once place he did not favour our company was in the car. His plaintive cries when the car was in motion did not show him in his best light and so he attempted to avoid this whenever possible. At our old house, he liked to climb a red oak that was very near to the back deck. Frequently, he would jump from a tree limb to the roof of the house extension. For a while he was able to get back down on his own but after we did a pruning of the tree, he was still able to reach the roof but was not able to get back to the tree from the roof. On those occasions, we put a 2 by 4 out the window that overlooked the extension, prop the plank against the window sill and encourage Fritz to climb the plank to the window. He always knew what to do. Similarly, one summer day when Fritz was snoozing on the back deck, a large dog escaped from its leash and came bounding along our side yard. Alarmed, Fritz took off, the dog behind him. He bounded to the steps that led down into the back garden, leapt 25 feet straight across the garden in one move, and wrapped his legs around the trunk of the maple tree as though the bark were made of Velcro. He scrambled up the trunk to the nearest fork and looked down at the dog, now barking at the base of the tree, and settled in for the long haul. Finally, the dog tired of the wait and left. Fritz, however, had moved to the next higher fork and had scrambled up along a rather thick branch. It became apparent that he was not keen to come down the way he had gone up and would have to be rescued. My husband managed to get up to the fork nearest Fritz but due to the incompatibility between the branch and his own weight, the cat would have to come to meet him. But Fritz was not so inclined and preferred to stay where he was, looking petrified and meowing rather fiercely by this time. We finally hit on the idea of using the plank. John pushed a short plank along the branch towards Fritz. When it was near his feet, we began to cajole him into trying it the way he used to on the roof. He finally understood what we wanted him to do and very gingerly he put one foot after the other on the plank. It wasn't long before he was in John's arms and safely on the ground. In the summer of 1999, Fritz began to lose weight. We were not unduly alarmed, thinking that his fence-climbing had made him the same svelte creature of the summer before. By October, when we realized that he was not putting on his winter layer, we put it down to his being an elderly cat, to use the veterinarian's words, and still were not worried. Just after Christmas, he began throwing up and his food consumption dropped off almost completely. Frantic, we took him to our vet who could find nothing wrong. A series of tests and an exploratory surgery were not helpful and Fritz was sent home with some medication to deal with a low-grade fever. During his last weeks, Fritz wanted to cuddle much more than ever. He would curl his thin little body into a small, weightless ball and snuggle into the curve of my left arm and hip as I sat with my legs drawn up in the corner of the couch. He would stare unblinking at me, his eyes full of hope and trust. We held silent conversations in which we spoke of our love and our journey together. Most of the time we said nothing at all, each of us giving and receiving, much needed warmth to him, much needed love to me. He had no need for goodbyes. He had no need to prepare himself. Death came to him as easily and as naturally as night follows day. No elaborate funeral plans, no estate to bequeath, his only earthly possessions a blanket, a food dish and a long forgotten catnip mouse. He left as simply as he had arrived, his journey over, our lives forever changed by the awesomest kitty cat there ever was.