A university friend found Ozzie wandering the streets of St. John’s. Just a wee little black and white kitten, his baby fur still sticking out straight from his scrawny body. Big grey eyes. We were not adept in those days (or even now) at guessing the age of a kitty but estimated him then to be about a month old. I now think he was more like a couple months or more. We took him in as a companion to Goodyear. He was endearing and sweet, full of life and curiosity. It was his curiosity which would kill him.

I do not remember why we called him Ozzie. We were far from being fans of Ozzie Osborne so I doubt he was any inspiration. Raph always called Ozzie the Wharf Rat, mainly because he would gobble his food so quickly. We would just put the dishes down for the cats, when Ozzie would be finished. I guess he never learned to trust that there would be another meal where that one came from.

The months of surviving on the street had left Ozzie with an insuppressible urge to rifle through garbage and we had to store our garbage in the shed. One night in 1993, we were lax. He got into chicken bones and was having trouble drinking and even breathing. The vet had no good news for us and we had to let Ozzie go. Dear little guy.

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For those who do not know, we spend a lot of time in Newfoundland. In August 2014, as we were heading out to dinner at Sansome’s Lobster Pool to celebrate our anniversary, John asked me if I had heard the bird which was nesting under our shed. I had not, so he took me around the side of the house to listen for it.

Nothing to see. But so much noise. I told John to get a prybar and take off the skirting around the base of the shed. I reached in and picked up the tiniest little furry bundle and said, “Here’s your bird.”

My kitten-age-calculator is not in the best condition. I would have said it was two weeks old, but who can be certain? Its eyes were open, its voice strong. It did not appear to be starving, but who can tell with such a youngster?

What does one feed such a tiny thing? I opened a can of tuna and poured the juice into a little bowl. Silly me, I placed the bowl on the floor, kitty next to it. Duh. Then I wet my finger with tuna juice and held it to kitty’s mouth. Nothing. No idea what to do with the smell of tuna juice, much less a finger. Orphan Annie didn’t even try to suck on it.

We called our friend Kyrsten who raises Newfoundland dogs and a few cats thinking she might have some advice. Before I could say hungry kitty, she was at the door to pick up the little critter, taking her home to hopefully latch on to a lactating Newf. That didn’t go well. Instead, Kyrsten sat up most of the night, feeding a mixture of milk, egg and dog vitamins through an eye dropper.

Kyrsten had also placed a call to the nearest SPCA, an hour away in Gander, who said if we could bring Annie to them, they knew of a cat who had a litter. They would put her in with the other kittens and see how she fared.

Long story short, Annie survived and thrived. We are grateful to Chantal who took excellent care of all the little kittens, and who took to Annie especially. She was very disappointed when she learned that we had already told the SPCA we would like first dibs when Annie was ready to be adopted. It didn’t seem right that we let a kitten who had found us go to someone else.

Annie was no longer an orphan, so we changed her name to Peekaboo, Peeka for short. A Brazilian friend told us that Pica was a rude word in Portuguese, but we had no plans to teach Peeka Portuguese so figured we were safe.

From the pitiful mewling kitty that she was in August 2014, Peeka has emerged as a very fluffy, very assertive cat. When she was about four months old, she began to exhibit some strange behaviour. When she lay in certain places – a particular mat, for instance -- her hind paws would attack her chin. Once she kicked herself so forcefully, that it made her cry out. The vet in Ottawa had not heard of this before so we took some videos. The condition is still officially undiagnosed but it appears to be related to the twitch that ripples down her back sometimes. We can distract her out of it by dangling her cat toy or tossing a sweater over her head, but it appears to be something she will always have.

When she gets in these moods, she not only attacks herself, but us. Our wrists are her favourite target and she will launch herself from anywhere to get at them. Initially she actually bit us, but lately she seems to heed our “No, Peeka” command and now only pretends to bite. Maybe she will grow out of this like she outgrew her need to scramble up the curtains.

Needless to say, because we live in an apartment most of the year, Peeka is an indoor cat. When the weather is nice here, or in Newfoundland, I will put her on a leash and take her for a walk. She seems to enjoy this and loves to chase bees and wasps, even though I think she has been stung at least once by a wasp. In Hillgrade, we have a bird feeder where we attract blue jays, grey jays and crows. She has an ideal viewing spot where she can watch bird TV and it costs only peanuts.

There is no doubt that James found us. We were taking Fritz and Purrsia to a kennel for summer vacation, ours not theirs, when we first saw James locked up in an outdoor cage in the midst of a pack of yappy, unhappy dogs.

He was a magnificent specimen of feline beauty and I knew we had to have him. I just didn’t want the kids to think that it was my idea. I let them humbug me all weekend about giving the poor, poor kitty a home. Of course, I let them think that there was no way on God’s green earth that we could accommodate another cat. But of course, as everyone knew would happen, I relented about supper time on Monday and suggested that perhaps we should drive back to the kennel to see if the kitty cat was still there.

He knew we’d be back. He jumped out of his little cardboard box the minute he saw us and there was no turning back, for any of us.

He was the cat from Hell, if ever there was one. The people who had abandoned him at the kennel had obviously lived in an apartment because James freaked out at the sight of the stairs. He would lie on the landing and threaten any living thing that ventured either up or down with a hiss, a snarl, a swat and an outright attack.

When the state of siege was three weeks old, I’d had enough. I was tired of living in fear, wondering if my next step would be my last. Adrenalin, when it pumps 24 hours a day, is hard on the body and I saw that my future would not be a long one unless either James or I left.

As though he had read my mind, that very week James relinquished his fortress on the landing and retreated to the family room, even daring to avail himself of an available empty lap.

We let him outdoors for the first time on a fine evening in May. He sniffed the air for dogs, and finding none, ventured behind the mock orange bushes. He peeped back at us to make sure we hadn’t abandoned him and then sallied towards the hydrangea. It was rather large and dark shadows are great a great hiding environment for a black cat. We soon realized that he was not where we had last seen him, and panic set in with all hands running this way and that, calling to James to please come home. We didn’t have long to worry. He was spotted initiating the flower bed along the neighbour’s house. I realized that he was laying down a long one and knowing that our new neighbour was not particularly fond of cats, I shrieked “James, stop it!”

James, startled beyond belief, leaped out of the flower bed before he was ready, whipping the ripe turd through the air and smack against the neighbour’s house. We were able to persuade John to edge himself through the hedge and remove the offending mess from the siding while the rest of us doubled over in gales of laughter. James regained his composure and completed his interrupted toilet on our deck.

Fast forward to 2003. James has been an ‘only cat’ for almost two years now. It is best this way, methinks. He no longer has to bow down to Chief Fritz. He no longer has to tolerate the very presence of Purrsia. He has settled in to a very decadent lifestyle. If he goes out, he gets treats when he comes home. He has the run of the house, and can sleep wherever he darn well pleases — mostly on a dining room chair beneath the overhanging table cloth or on the little stool in the front hall where the sun shines through the sidelight. Misbehaviour is almost a thing of the past. He did arrive home with a tiny bunny in his jaws last summer. A stern admonition from me and he dropped the little guy who ran around the corner of the house where I think (hope is probably the better word) he managed to escape. Most people think James has mellowed. Maybe he has. Certainly he is not as curmudgeonly as he used to be and even lets you hold him when the moon is full and the tide is high.

In March 2009 James began leaving lakes in his litter box. I mean not just puddles, but lakes. A visit to the vet revealed that James had advanced diabetes. The prescription was for a pill and two needles per day, every day, for the rest of his life which the vet could not guarantee would be long.

As you may have gathered by now, James did not suffer fools, or medication, gladly. Life as he knew it would change severely and he would never be allowed outside again. He would have to submit to medication and needles twice a day. The stress of this alone would probably endanger his health.

The realization was devastating. James was not going to survive this and it would be a kindness to him not to put him through the trauma of treatment when the outcome would be the same and probably in a few months. We said goodbye to James, who was not in any mood to be coddled or cuddled, but was just as handsome and proud as ever. Right to the end. Dear, sweet, curmudgeonly James.

Purrsia joined the family in February of 1991 as a new companion for Fritz after the untimely death of Bailey. She was picked out of the display at the Humane Society — a quiet, sad, little grey kitten with magnificent orange eyes.

Like running water, she sought out the lowest point in our house and for the next three or four months we never saw her. We set food and water near where we thought she was hiding; it would be gone when we went back so at least we knew she wasn’t starving. Marcus had named her Spook for obvious reasons. I called her Purrsia, since she had arrived during the Gulf War when the area formerly known as Persia was also much in the news.

Purrsia the lonely loner

One evening, Marcus and I were sitting in the family room watching the tube when a rustling noise at the edge of the sofa alerted us both. When we moved to see what it was, a grey cat was streaking out of the room. She was gone again, but returned again the next night, and the next, until she was staying for longer periods. It was probably June before she finally stayed upstairs for good.

Purrsia is the quietest one in the family except when the can opener is spotted or heard. She is also the one I know least. She is not cuddly and does not enjoy being held. She begs for attention but doesn’t know what to do with it when she gets it. It took years before she began to enjoy it a little.

She finally tolerated James by the year 2000, and was spotted informing him that she and Fritz were co-bosses. It remained to be seen how long James would tolerate this state of affairs. In fairness to James, he was never mean to her. I think he, like us, saw her fragility and sweetness, and recognized that she meant no harm to anyone.

Fast forward to March 2001. Purrsia began to have difficulty climbing stairs. She stopped eating and that was a sure sign that something was wrong. She began to lose weight and cried if you tried to pick her up.

A visit to the vet confirmed that we were right to worry. Purrsia had a growth on her bladder and it was in all likelihood cancer. We could spend a ton of money to buy her a short time longer to live or we could let her go. The vet asked if we wanted to come for a last visit. Of course I did. They brought her to me wrapped in a large snuggly blanket. She was so happy to see us and let me hold her without any of the usual struggle. They came to get her and I’ll never forget her eyes looking back at me over the shoulder of the attendant. She meowed one last time and then they disappeared around the corner. I have regretted ever since not staying with her as she approached her big sleep. I’m a wuss and I am ashamed.

I hope I can be as good a human as she was a pussycat.

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 goodbye 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. 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.

When he came to us, he reminded Raphael of the only cat he,Raph, had ever heard of – Fritz the Cat of comic book fame. Raphael, who was lukewarm at best about cats, seemed to think it a fitting name for any cat he would live with. So Fritz it was. I reserved the right to call him Fritzy whenever I was feeling particularly affectionate, which was pretty much all the time. He looked somewhat like the famous Fritz — striped black, white and grey, with a 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 pit bull.

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 outdoors. 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 at 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 inate right to sexual pleasure. We agreed to disagree, my husband and I, particularly as we watched the little fellow struggle to walk when 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 okay. 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 that era 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 begging to be jumped. He would spend hours leaping from the back of one chair or sofa to the next, from coffee table to end table, 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. 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 Humane 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. Bugsy — named by my son for reasons that are now foggy but may have been related to some Malone guy — 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 chair backs, up and down the curtains, and 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 so tiny a creature could create so big 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 with the usual rebuttals. 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 sick?

And so it went. Fritz became the physician cat. Whenever someone was ill, 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 cushier lap was always his second choice. I reasoned that either the cat really preferred men or that my husband was feeding him goodies when we weren’t looking.

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 depth that I would have to turn away. I was and still am convinced that he was a Buddhist monk in his last life.

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, just made 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 aahs of the company were music to his ears. He brushed against every leg in the place, returning to those legs whose owners had also reached down to admire his gleaming fur or 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 thoroughly with his easy-going nature, his total absence of fear of anyone and anything, and 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’s 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. Never once did I see him squirm 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 “mrr-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 manless house for the rest of his days. John was a little surprised, I think, by the amount of attention being paid to the cats, not being used to pets, 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-high, chain-link fence surrounding the garden. The neighbours on both sides of us had 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, John was shocked to see Fritz strolling up the path towards the door.

“I thought you put the cats in the back yard?” he said.
“I did,” I replied. “Why?”
“Well, come see.” John 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 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. When he realized we were waiting on him, 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 we would sneak out of the house just so we walk at 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 one 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 we kept his car rides to a minimum.

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 retrace his steps back to the tree and down, 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 the first occasion, we put a two-by-four out the window that overlooked the extension, propped the plank against the window sill and encouraged Fritz to climb the plank to the window. Thereafter he 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 slim branch and a man’s weight, the cat would have to come to meet him. Fritz however 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 did 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.

** By this time we had three cats: Fritzy, James and Purrsia. Bugsy had died as had Bailey who came after Bugsy.

Bailey was an orange tabby who came from the Humane Society to be a replacement for Bugsy and a new companion for Fritzy – completely contrary to Raph’s preferences. To give him credit, he did not make too much of a fuss when ginger cat #2 arrived and grudgingly gave Bailey props for being a tough guy, not letting himself be cowed by anything.

The one thing I vividly remember about Bailey was his drooling. If you stroked his head, he would drool. If he lay in your lap and you spoke softly to him, he would drool. Long strings of drool hung from his lips the minute he felt safe in your presence. It was a nuisance and I had a drool blanket that was kept by the couch.

I think we all thought Bailey was an extension of Bugsy. Not only did they look like twins, they were both fierce when they had to be. Bailey too liked to scout out the neighbourhood frequently and keep his enemies on a short leash.

I do not remember him being away for any length of time (like Bugsy) so when in the early fall of 1991 he didn’t come home for a couple of days, we became concerned. We prowled the neighbourhood calling him over and over, morning, noon and night. Nothing. Not a sign of him anywhere.

Then one Saturday morning, I opened the back door to do something on the back deck and I heard leaves rustling underneath. I knew it was Bailey. But he did not respond. Just more leaf rustling. I got down on my hands and knees and looked into the darkness under the bridge**. More leaf rustling. I was sure now. I called and called and called and then, there he was – slowly scrabbling out from underneath, his face badly injured. He looked at me, one eye hanging out of its socket and I grabbed a large towel and gathered him up. I called to Marcus and while he held Bailey, we raced to the vet.

The news was not good. The eye could not be saved and the surgery cost for his broken jaw would have been astronomical for us. I looked at Marcus and he looked at me, and we both knew what we had to do.

The most amazing thing that day was the sound of Bailey purring as he lay on the examination table, staring at us with his good eye. I still cry for him.

** A deck on a house is called a bridge in Newfoundland. I still use that word.

We had had Fritzy for a few months when we (i.e. I) decided that he needed a companion to keep him company when everybody was at work or at school. Raphael was not on board with this decision, but he was overruled by Marcus and me. Two against one. We went to the Humane Society and found the little marmalade cat who was jumping up and down at his little cage door.

From the start, Bugsy (surname Malone) was fearless. He did not back down from anything. A-N-Y T-H-I-N-G. As all our cats were in those days, Bugsy was an outdoor cat and he kept the neighbourhood cats in line and out of our garden.

Bugsy would much rather be out at night than indoors, despite the fact that the cat mommy (me) called everyone home before it got dark. He sometimes stayed away for two days before crawling home to sleep for as long as he’d been away.

Finally, he didn’t come home for three days and although we were a bit worried, we figured this was just extreme Bugsy thug behaviour and didn’t fret too much.

Then our neighbour across the street (which was a boulevard with both sides of the road at different heights – ours was the upper road) told us that she thought Bailey had been killed by a car. She had seen an orange cat lying in front of her house the day before and all the neighbourhood cats had come and sat in a circle around it. Some other neighbour had already called the city who came and took the body away.

We will never know if he could have been saved had we known in time. We missed Bailey, the street thug, who had finally met a foe he couldn’t handle.

O.P. was a little black and white shorthair, maybe 8 months old, who came to visit and hung around our door on Brighton Avenue, circa 1982. It was obvious that he had a family. Somewhere. Meanwhile, he was hungry; we fed him. He stayed; we didn’t mind.

My son had a hamster at that time and O.P. loved to watch the little guy scurry around his cage.

O.P. stayed with us for maybe a month. Then he was gone. Perhaps back to his home. Perhaps to become some other family’s O.P.

Disclaimer: When we named O.P., we didn't know that the popular acronym was O.P.P. (Other People's Possession) not O.P. And we certainly didn't suspect that many years into the future O.P. would stand for something entirely different in social media.

Goodyear was a fat little kitty, blimp-like, thus the inspiration for his name. He came to us via an acquaintance at Memorial University of Newfoundland (M.U.N.) He and his wife were leaving the province and did not want to take their cat. Of course, I had not had a cat in a very long time and this was a no-brainer. Goody loved little Ozzie when he arrived and they hung around together for the short time that Ozzie was with us.

Goody moved with us to St. John’s when we bought a house on Highland Drive. It was not a good move for Goody. He never adjusted and tried to tell us how unhappy he was by spraying everywhere. Of course, those were the days when nobody had cats neutered and we had no clue that this might have prevented his smelly behaviour. Had we known, we would have found the money somewhere.

It finally got too much for Raphael and he insisted the cat be put down. I was horrified but because I had no solution to the problem and leaving him outside all the time was not an option, I didn’t put up much of a fight, I’m ashamed to say. Raphael took Goodyear to the vet that last time when I was away on a labour-union-related trip.

He was such a lovely fellow: orange shorthair, with long legs, firm, muscled body. He hardly every meowed or made a fuss about anything. He loved to cuddle especially when he was younger, and was a wonderful care-taker for my son when he came along. His life was much too short, and I will carry guilt for this until I die. <.p>

For two years in the late 1950s, my family and I lived in Channel, Nfld. Somewhere in the second year, my mother brought home a cat who had been the store cat at Windsor’s Grocery. She had, my mother assured me, been well loved and taken care of, but they were sure she would love living with a little girl who wanted a cat so badly. I had not yet grown my skeptic spidey sense so I did not question this motivation. Puff was mine and that’s all that mattered.

Puff was — although I did not know it yet — a calico. A queen. A Ruler of the roost. A don’t-mess-with-me kind of cat. She was standoffish unless she was hungry, at which time she threaded her way around every leg in the kitchen.

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Our back porch in that house was narrow so there was no room for a bed there for her. As I recall, her bed was at the bottom of the basement stairs. Her food dishes were behind the kitchen stove. I shudder now that I did not see how wrong this was. She deserved a sleeping spot upstairs with the family.

I was about 10 when Puff (probably five years old) arrived and was into pen pals and making doll clothes, learning to knit and to play a guitar I received for Christmas the previous year. Perhaps not a lot of time for Puff, but she didn’t seem to mind, being aloof by nature.

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She was fascinated by the piano. She would sit on the piano stool next to my mother or me when we played, and face the keyboard silently. However, if I sang along as I played, she would howl bitterly until I stopped.

In 1960 we moved to Deer Lake where, unlike Channel where the house was very close to the road, there was a lot of land around all sides of the house. A very long driveway led from the road to a old shed. The ramp to the shed was so rotten that people could not walk safely on it. Puff seemed to figure out she was safe from humans if she sat on the ramp. She always ran there if you chased her and stay all day, watching the world go by.

Her years of being a store cat left their mark. She was afraid of brooms. She would run as fast as her little legs could carry her to safety whenever a broom was brought out. My mother said she had probably been swatted with a broom many times. I believe that.

Puff was the first cat we had, I believe, to have received canned cat food. Puss ‘n Boots. Those were the days when refrigerator space was at a premium, so the cat food can sat on a window ledge above the wringer washer, at the foot of which was the food dish. A soup spoon stood up in the open can, ready to dish up the next meal. It’s a wonder we didn’t kill poor Puff with bacteria which surely grew in the open can. A propos of killing the cat, I should add here that we didn’t give the cat water either in those days. She got milk (in her food dish) on special occasions but because she was outdoors much of the time, she drank from the lake (Deer Lake) across the street. It really is a wonder our cats survived back then.

Puff was not only fluffy but rotund. Round and sound, my dad used to say, meaning she was firm to the touch. My mother told me many years later that she often wondered if the cat had something growing inside her.

When I went away to university in 1966, my parents took care of Puff and I loved coming home to see her … and them too, of course. In 1968, my parents moved into another home and when I came home that Christmas, Puff was nowhere to be seen.

It seems that in her old age (she was probably 15 or so by then) she had lost bladder control and my mother was beside herself keeping up with what the cat was doing.

My mother finally admitted that my father had taken matters into his own hands with the help of a closed cardboard box and the exhaust of his car.

I think I cried for weeks. Not only had I lost my dear Puff. I felt betrayed by my parents who had not told me either that they were going to do it, or, until I asked, that it had been done.

The first cat I remember being in our house was Clarabelle. I was about seven, I think, and although I have no recollection of where she came from, I was thrilled to know she was to live with us. She was, although I didn’t know it then, a calico. Browns, blacks and whites. Fat and cuddly with longish fur and a short fuzzy, quite pointed, tail. This may be because I remember her only as a kitten.

I have a memory of Clarabelle climbing the lacy dining room curtains and leaving large thread loops in her wake. This episode may explain why she was allowed in the house only rarely, to theh point where it appears to me now that she really wasn't considered a member of the family in the way that Peeka is today. I don’t remember her being in bed with me, or snuggling on the couch — not that snuggling on the couch was something any of us did. The living room in those days was used only for company or for when my mother gave piano lessons. We did not have television, so there was nothing to do in there that interested me and my parents never lolled about anywhere, much less there.

Her cat box (where she slept) and her food dish was in our back porch. She lived on table scraps and whatever she could hunt when she was outside. She had no litter box. Such a thing had not been dreamed of yet. Cats did their business outdoors and they asked to be let out by sitting at the door until they were noticed. Accidents were dealt with by my mother “rubbing the cat’s nose in it — she has to learn.” (I’m so sorry, Clarabelle.)

The most vivid memory I have of Clarabelle is of her giving birth to kittens in her cardboard carton in the back porch. I was not allowed to see the goings on until it was all over and the kittens were mewling in the box with her.

Memory fails once again since I have no idea what happened to the kittens. I suspect now that the nearby stream might have had some relation with their fate. All except one who was kept. Miracle of miracles. His name was Twiggles … I think. I may have that wrong, but does it really matter?

Twiggles may have been killed by a car (very unlucky cat because in Brigus circa 1956, there were very few motorized vehicles of any sort. Should I blame it on the meat-man who did come weekly and stop in front of the house, open the doors of the little wooden cabin in the bed of his truck and slice and dice meat according to what my mother wanted.

I don’t remember what happened to Clarabelle. I don’t recall her being around when Twiggles was with us.

What I am sure of is that there was a Twiggles II. I have no idea if he was related to Twiggles I, or if he made his way to our place completely independently.

I do know that when we left Brigus in 1958, we had no cats at all. And saddest of all is that I have no pictures of Clarabelle, Twiggles I or Twiggles II. My father was a photographer but was more interested in capturing sunsets and landscapes than people or animals. I think I drew pictures of at least one cat. I came across it many years ago but do not have it now.