RIP Hattie

I am suddenly the only female in the house

My Hattiegirl is no more. She had not been doing well and she had a lump on the side of her neck. It had been growing quickly over the last month or so. I’d put off going in to see our beloved vet, Dr. Mary of All Creatures in Urbana, because I knew things weren’t good and Hattie was long past doing any kind of dramatic treatment. It was starting to impact her eating. She was down to a hair over a measly five pounds.

I know it was the right thing to do, but damn, it’s so fucking hard. I loved that tough little cat. Twenty years old. She was my girl.

Look who was watching over us during our appointment though, Jeff Evans’ beloved Carmel.

Hattie was my girl. She liked sleeping on my head.

This what she looked like when we got her.

She and her brood of kittens were Katrina orphans. They’d ended up at our vet’s office and were up for adoption. Ernie and Owen had brought somebody in, hmmm, maybe Harlan, for something. Hattie and her kittens were all Manx, so of course no tails. Ernie overheard some women, he still irritatedly describes them as old biddies, pointing and laughing at the cats for having no tails. He was incensed and highly offended on the cats’ behalf. Ernie and Owen came home ranting about it but Ernie claimed to be in a ‘no more cats’ phase. My sister Debbie was visiting, and before she left she tucked the money for the adoption in Ernie’s pocket and told him to do whatever he wanted with it.

So, Hattie and Bob (the only kitten left, and reportedly the runt of the litter) came home with him the next day.

Bob was a tiny little thing and still nursing.

Bob was supposed to be the boys’ cat but he quickly pledged his allegiance to Ernie.

Hattie though? Hattie was my girl.

Hattie was a remarkably self possessed cat. She would just wander through the house concert crowd with nary a concern. I remember her cleaning herself in the window behind Rod Picott as he poured his heart out.

She was a magnificent mouser and the prettiest cat we’ve ever had.

She loved greens of any kind and was always thrilled when we came home from the farmers’ market.

She was a cat of great equanimity but had a mischievous side as well. She KNEW she wasn’t supposed to be on the mantel.

She loved a good fire but was happy with a warm heater vent as well.

She was sometimes, uh, fluffier than other times. She adored Todd, the guy that did this bathroom. She liked to hang out in the shower while he worked.

She loved it when our friend Jonathan would come to house concerts so she could sit on his lap and eye the crowd.

The last few years were hard on her and she was a tiny shadow of her former self but she just kept going. I always told her she was like my mom, looked like a sweet old lady, but was actually damned tough inside. It’s been years since I started telling the boys that I didn’t know how much longer Hattie would be around. And yet she just kept going. Stubborn and self possessed. We should all be Hattie.

This is the last picture I took of her, this morning. She did snuggle up with me, draped across my chest as she liked, ensuring I could do nothing but pet her, and purred before we took her in.

It’s funny, as we driving home, both of us crying, I had this random thought pop into my head—that it would be easier for Peter Cooper to play at our house now, as he was allergic to cats. What weird complicated little worlds we have in our heads. I have a number of friends that are allergic to cats but that’s what came to me. Of course Peter is gone now too, so maybe that’s why.

So we have no cats. It doesn’t seem that long ago we had four. The four cats were the reason we had to cancel a Peter Case/Kevn Kinney show. Kevn is reportedly extremely allergic. I don’t think we’ve been without a cat since the year after I graduated college. This will be a tough adjustment.

RIP my Hattiegirl.