by Katherine Egbert O'Rourke

There must be many wonderful stories about remarkable cats and their equally remarkable lives, but the cat I want to tell you about did none of those things. He was never lost and never found his way home from hundreds of miles away. He never saved a life. He never learned to do tricks or impress my friends with his extraordinary intelligence.

Cats are not generally known for the quality of their devotion. They are frequently derided for being cold and distant animals, primarily interested in satisfying their need for food and shelter with the human element being a tolerated convenience. It was a great gift, therefore, to be loved unshakably and unwaveringly by an animal with this reputation. If my cat was remarkable in any way, beyond the way all cats are remarkable, it was in the way in which he was able to love. His devotion to me, and only me, would have put the greatest dog to shame.

In 1981 I found myself at the local Humane Society staring at dozens of kittens up for adoption. I was leaning against one of the cages and narrowing my choice down to one in a litter of tabbies, when I felt two small, soft paws wrap themselves around my arm. I turned and looked into a pair of bright, lima-green eyes. Holding tighter, a tiny white kitten with orange tabby markings stared at me with determination, then threw his head back and yowled. Loudly. Very loudly. There to choose, I had been undeniably chosen. Without hesitation, I turned to the woman helping me and said, “I’ll take this one.” Two weeks later, having met the necessary criteria, I brought my little bundle of joy home

Within moments of our arrival, a loud noise frightened my kitten and he shot under the sofa. He was up against the back wall, terrified. I pressed myself to the floor and softly tried to coax him out. He blinked. In that moment he made a decision from which he would never back down and crawled straight out into my arms.

Clyde grew into one of the largest cats I have ever seen. He meowed constantly from the moment I brought him home. He only stopped to sleep and purr. He would remain stoically (and amazingly!) silent during overnight visits to the vet, but would inevitably break into loud calls at the sound of my voice. He was my companion during many dark, lonely years, and I cared for him devotedly through numerous, frightening illnesses. When leaving the house, I could hear him meowing through the door as I walked away. On my return, he was always there to greet me. When he was frightened, he would bury his face in my chest, and when he was happy, he would blink at me and smile broadly. During affectionate moments, he would mimic my meow to him in quiet conversation. He would turn his nose up in disdain at a can of tuna, but loved spaghetti sauce and would become ecstatic if he was given an olive.

I could tell you endless stories of his misadventures, but none of them would vary much from the misadventures of other cats. He was handsome, he was funny, he was an unbelievable pain, but mostly, Clyde was just completely mine...and I was completely his.

I suppose that fourteen years passes quickly for everyone. The day finally came when, his liver failing as a result of a long fight with diabetes, I made the decision to end Clyde’s suffering. Because he could no longer jump onto the bed, I spent his last night with him on the floor. He curled up in the crook of my arm and I think he purred all night.

Knowing that he would die terrified if I brought him to his vet’s office, I requested a final home visit. It was the last gift I could give him. So, it was on a warm June morning that I held my dear cat close as he yelled his protest and the vet administered one final shot. Three last meows and the ever-present voice of my constant companion was silenced forever. I wonder if I will ever mourn another friend in the same way.

The author Kinky Friedman ended one of his books with a tribute to his cat, Cuddles. He wrote, “People may surprise you with unexpected kindness. Dogs have a depth of loyalty that often we seem unworthy of. But the love of a cat is a blessing and a privilege in this world. They say when you die and go to heaven all the dogs and cats you’ve ever had in your life come running to meet you. Until that day, rest in peace....”

I, too, have been greatly blessed and privileged. I know that never again in my life am I likely to find the kind of devotion and complete, remarkable love I had from this one cat. Someday I will have to face what lies Beyond, but it seems a little easier knowing that, first in line, hurrying to meet me and yelling his head off, will be my cat, Clyde.

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©1995, Katherine Egbert O'Rourke