My mother, bless her heart, calls me up each year on my birthday to remind me that "X years ago was the MOST IMPORTANT DAY OF [HER] LIFE!" Such are the advantages of being an only child. I suppose it was the most important day of mine, too. But it's a lot of pressure to put on one poor day.
Twenty years ago today was not THE most important day of my life, but I guess it ranks up there. In June of 1986, my dear departed kittycat, Sheba, was smuggled to me, against my mom's wishes, under my friend Tippy's red Members Only jacket. Born in a barn somewhere outside Mauldin, SC, Sheba (then for some reason named "Mr. T," by Tippy and her sister Ginny) was a tiny blue-grey thing, small enough to fit in my palm, and riddled with all sorts of mites, worms, fleas, and infections. We figured she was about six weeks old, so I gave her my May 9 birthday.
There was never any doubt that Sheba was my baby, not a family cat -- a responsibility made clear when, two years later, my mom gave up on trying to deal with the early-teenaged me and told me not to come back from visiting my father in Seattle for the summer. The next day, Sheba was shipped air cargo from Greenville-Spartanburg to a warehouse at Sea-Tac, where my stepmom and I picked her up, blinking groggily. She purred as soon as she realized it was me.
Being a young cat mother carried with it a lot of responsibility, especially post-highschool -- I never did the semester abroad in college I'd dreamed of, couldn't live in a dorm (had I wanted to, that is), and mostly brought boys back to my apartment rather than staying away from her all night. Looking for apartments always entailed finding a place of which Sheba (aka Stanky, aka Sheba Amoeba, aka Shebalu, etc. ad infinitum)would approve. I chose to return to the south for grad school partly because I knew she'd be comfortable there. But, as moms say, it was all worth it to have the fluffiest, snuggliest, goofiest, most beautiful cat you've ever seen for a companion (if you never met her, you'll just have to take my word for it -- references available upon request).
Sheba lived many places over her 17-year life, but I'm pretty sure that she loved the last place she lived best, a run-down Arts-and-Crafts original in Chapel Hill, with a screened-in porch and lots of yard to ponder. Outside the big window in the front of the house was a gorgeous, prolific pink camellia bush; she'd sit in a sunny spot on a chair we set up for her in front of the window and wait for me or her daddy to come home. After parking in the yard, we'd stand there like dorks in front of the house, waving through the window at her huge, round green eyes. Toward the end of her life, she mostly stayed in that spot, and after she succumbed to all sorts of older cat diseases two years ago, we decided to place her remains under the bush.
So if you happen to be driving down Pritchard Street in Chapel Hill this week, be sure to slow down and appreciate the camellias, which are always so pretty this time of year.
And on a lighter note, new cat dad Mr. Management sends an article on Belgium's annual dead cat festival, which takes place each May in Ypres. More info here and here. Another reason Belgium is crawling up my list of places to visit soon!
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