Jake, my beloved cat, is 19
years and 10 months old. In human years that’s around 96, depending on which site
one consults. I, at 76, am 15 in cat years, using the same scale. We are both
old, and it’s something of a race to see who lasts longer. I suppose I will,
baring something unthinkable, and I find that very distressing. Jake has been
such a presence in my life for so many years, that I can’t imagine life without
her.
After Tilly, my previous cat,
died, I wasn’t going to get another cat. But when Jake was offered and I was
told that she had been totally
declawed, how could I say no? Her first owner had severe asthma, and he had the
notion that if Jake were totally declawed, and bathed multiple times a week, he
would be able to keep her. He almost died of a severe asthma attack. That man’s
mother, a fellow teacher of mine, took Jake and began looking for another home.
That same man had had a beloved dog named Jake when he was a kid, so even
though Jake was female, he named her Jake. Being superstitious about such
things, I kept the name.
Jake is the strongest willed
cat I’ve ever had. She will have things her way—or one is going to bleed. This
is not to say she’s not affectionate, she is, but she will be affectionate on
her terms and when she wants. Mostly that works out fine as I’m pretty much the
same way.
Jake is a one-person cat:
she doesn’t like anyone else but me and has no tolerance for visitors. Back in
Texas, where I often made Sunday brunch for as many as twelve people, Jake
would come out and be in the middle of the event; but should anyone try to pet
her, he or she would bleed: look but don’t touch. She had a special animosity
toward my brother Ken. He deserved it, as he teased her every chance he got
(and he paid in lost blood several times, too). She had a supreme moment over
Ken when he came in the back door once to feed her while I was out of town.
Jake was on top of the fridge near the back door as he came in. Fearing Jake a
bit, for good reason, he was shaken when she was waiting for him on top of the
fridge and hissed and swatted at him. He wasn’t expecting it and, frankly, got
his just reward for taunting her so often. Revenge, even for a cat, is sweet. I
still enjoy that story.
Jake seems healthy enough
for the most part, but she, like me, has arthritis. I see it when she gets up
after lying for a while; that is, she walks like I do after I’ve been sitting
for a while. We mirror each other in our limping, slow movements.
