The story of Emma

Emma was my first 'real' cat - I had done cat sitting prior to this, but Emma was the first. I had been raised with dogs and other pets, but never a cat. But, as I was a student and didn't have time for 'doggy duties', I thought a cat would be more self-reliant.

Neighbours had several cats, and a cat-flap door which enabled their cats indoor/outdoor access. Emma was a stray, and wandered through their door looking for food. My friends would have loved to keep her (she had a light brown cream colour fur coat, very soft, and she was very gentle) but they had their requisite number of cats. So, I was called to the scene.

Emma jumped into my lap almost immediately, which is rare given the subsequent history. She most likely wanted to be an 'only' cat. So, I took her home, introduced her to my house (where she decided for the first three days was just too scary to venture beyond from under the sofa), and we settled into life together. During the first week, Emma did something she only did once more--climb into my lap and cuddle for a while. I would have liked this more often, but it was not Emma's style.

Emma quickly determined to be an elegant piece of art -- one may look, but rarely touch. The exceptions to this were at feeding time and while on the dryer (one of her favourite perches, especially after laundry had been run through).

When I moved, she came along, and after the indignity of noticing other cat scents, determined that the house was safe nonetheless, had windows in better positions (from her vantage point) and a dryer perch that would enable her to see much more than before.

The house came with Zeke, an outdoor cat, who continued to live with us for about 6 years (until he disappeared), but as an outdoor-only cat (even in the worst of winter weather he didn't want to be inside) he and Emma had a peaceful coexistence.

However, a few years later, Paul arrived. Paul wanted to play, which didn't fit with the framework of being a work of art, as Emma was. So, she regarded Paul with great disdain, some huge orange oaf come to disrupt her happy home. An equilibrium (or perhaps I should say, detente) was achieved, as Paul liked being affectionate, and they weren't competing for food, perches, or attention.

In time Zeke was joined by Gray Kitty outside, as another regular outdoor-only visitor, come to sample the cuisine that was freely given. After more than a year of mistrust, of slowly coming closer and closer, Gray Kitty began to sit for brief periods in my lap while eating his food.

But, one summer Mommy Cat arrived, fat and ready to pop. She was obviously a well-cared-for and indoor kitty -- she was looking for a place to have kittens, and I let her inside as all the spots she was investigating had draining problems (which she wouldn't discover until it rained). The next day she delivered seven kittens.

Almost to the same day, Gray Kitty stopped coming by. A few months later, Zeke stopped coming. My outdoor cats had found new homes, in this world or the next. It was a very sad realisation, when I finally had to acknowledge that neither of them would return for food, and I could stop putting any out for them.

The kittens grew, and homes were found for six of them. I determined that I would keep Mommy Cat, who had proven to be affectionate and well-behaved, and a good companion for Paul (who wanted one) and courteous and distant to Emma (who preferred that). I also kept one kitten, Prancer, who would adjust, I was sure, and thus I would have my usual stable number of four cats, not an unreasonable number for a country house.

Unfortunately, shortly after the last kitten went home, Emma began turning yellow. Despite the best veterinary efforts, no cause could be determined and no treatment worked for more than a few days. I took Emma home and kept her isolated in the basement, which she rather enjoyed, as it had windows, her bed, a private litter box and food, and no other cats.

One morning before going to work, I went into the basement to give her her usual breakfast (warmed-over Wendy's burgers were the fare she preferred that week--the menu of what she would eat changed every few days at this stage). As I sat on the steps next to her bed on the landing, she climbed over beside me and cuddled, the second time in her life.

On my way to work, I collected some new antibiotics (hope springs eternal), and talked about a new course of treatment, and the possibility of more radical treatment involving biopsies and surgery and chemo-therapy (all things that I, as a struggling student, couldn't afford even for myself, but, I wasn't ruling anything out). That day at work, I worried, and considered what I might need to do to be able to afford the time and money this might take. And hoped for a miracle.

When I returned home, I went to the basement with Emma's dinner (chicken from KFC, I thought we'd give that a try as the burger had been gently refused at breakfast). Emma was not on her bed, and as I called for her, she didn't respond. It took a while searching to find her little body stretched out beneath the staircase, peaceful at last, soft and gentle as the first day we found each other.

I buried her in my flower garden in the back of the house, next to a stray cat I found on my road, and a possum I found near the drive. I wrapped her in her blanket and buried her catnip toy with her -- as it was her toy and she was possessive of it, it was only right that it should go with her. There is no marker -- I won't live in this house forever, and it won't mean anything to those who come after me. She is buried in my heart, and I shall always remember her.

It wasn't until later that evening that I realised, I had lived with Emma longer than any other pet-companion, and excepting my parents, longer than any other living creature. She had seen me through many transitions, and was always the same. I miss her. I thank her for her faithfulness. I trust she forgave my shortcomings with her as I forgave her hers. No other will be like her. And that is how it should be.