A Race to the Finish

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.

We have grown old together, Jake and I.