stephbg | RIP Cally 1993-2014 (Reply)

A few days after my last post about Cally, and as she came down after her latest dose of Tramal, it became clear that her time had come. The signs were many, but in essence she was going to be back in pain and discomfort for at least another couple of days before I could give her more pain relief. And the nature of that pain relief was making her treatment look more and more like the jerking of a puppet. Her eyes said no more. Her whiskers said no more. It was time.

The situation wasn't urgent, so while it was only Tuesday when we made the call I was happy to take the next appointment with Dr Laura on the Thursday. It gave us time to be absolutely certain, and to make our goodbyes and give as much love and tuna as we could squeeze in. That extra day confirmed that the decision was the right one.

On the day the appointment was for 10:15am, so after my usual early start I set an alarm for 9:30am so I could settle in for a final snuggle with Cally without watching the clock. We fell asleep, but that was OK, except when I woke up it seemed like a long time later and it was in fact 10:30am. Seems I'd set my alarm for PM not AM. I called the vet and they were able to reschedule for 11:30am so no great harm done, or hours to be spent in limbo. At least Cally and I had had a quiet snoozy morning together.

Her eyes once brightest gold are shadowed here with time.

At the vet I was able to get the spot by the window to give Cally a last bit of sun as we waited for a short while. Cally grumbled a bit as her forearm was shaved, but she did no more than shrug in protest. As the needle went in she wriggled just a little bit and growled, but was generally well behaved and received her final scritches. I was actually pleased she growled a bit and went out swearing. Vocabulary of a sailor, that cat. It was quick, it was clean, it was fair.

And there it was, roughly 20 years of companionship come to an end at last. The end of Cally was an end to more than one era. She was my first cat (I grew up with family cats, but Cally was mine and I was hers – we were a team). Following the loss of Pumpkin in January 2012 and Princess in May 2014, she was the last of my first generation of cats. Three in under 18 months.

A younger, plushier, bright-eyed Cally. Most early photos are pre-digital and in boxes awaiting a long dusty session with a scanner.

Cally came to us from the Cat Haven as a young adult, possibly about a year old. Originally named Kelly, I renamed her for the telepathic character Cally in Blake's Seven. Every second episode aliens were trying to take over her brain by calling "Caaaaaallllllly! Caaaaaaaaaaalllllllllly!" so it seemed like a good name to call a cat. She'd been surrendered by owners who couldn't cope with her not using the tray. Consensus was that she was stress marking (and she was certainly a stressy cat), but the only time I ever saw her do the same thing was much later when we introduced a second cat and failed to reassure Cally that she was still the boss. It was my first lesson in cat hierarchy management.

Cally could and frequently did stare deep into one's soul.

At first Cally was no more than your average nutcase cat with a few interesting quirks and random attacks. After we'd had her a couple of weeks we introduced her to the outside world, where she promptly stood up tall on her hind legs, with forearms by her side and had a good long look around that would do any meerkat proud. She just... stayed there, more than comfortable on two legs.

Cally was an enthusiastic consumer of the outdoors, but it did cost her a few lives along the way. She was hit by a car when still quite young (about 6 or so) and never recovered full flexibility and athleticism. She was attacked by a dog and assaulted an unknown but large number of times by other cats. Who knows how many stitches, abscesses, pills and and shots she clocked up. We used to joke that every time she went outside it would cost us $100 at the vet (prices not adjusted for inflation). The other day I tried to add up the number of vet visits she'd had, but gave up when I realised it was in the hundreds.

A softer side of Cally (although still quietly giving the world the finger).

Cally was also an enthusiastic consumer of food. She was never a fussy eater, and in her time captured her fair share of small furry, feathered, and scaly creatures. I rescued quite a few, but on the day I caught her on the doorstep with a bright yellow canary she was having none of it. That canary was *her* kill, so she growled like an angry lion and ran off with it at top speed. It can't have been more than a minute or two before I found the last resting place of said canary, marked by a single small clawed foot with plastic ring still attached.

The Human Who Feeds is behind that door. Stay vigilant!

She hadn't been with us very long when I had a six-month stretch of half-time employment. We figured out that she had enjoyed the extra company during the day because not long after I went back to full-time work she went full-on psycho danger cat. She attacked us. She actively hunted us. She growled and hissed and lashed out at us. We had to keep a water pistol by the phone for our own protection, because when we were on the phone she knew she had us cornered and came out all guns blazing.

Imagine this thing after your blood and possibly your soul. Even the panther was scared of her.

Running short on skin and fluids we decided that Cally could use some company in the form of another cat. Strictly speaking we were looking for a submissive cat willing to be a punching bag for our own protection. In came Squishy who blithely rolled over and agreed that yes, Cally was definitely Queen Cally. Very little feline violence ensued and she was never as violent with us again. (With the notable exception of vet visits where she had little notes in her files to warn that she was difficult and pointy.)

One of Cally's nicknames was BatCat.

Later came Princess who was not quite so willing to concede the throne, so those two each sported scratched noses for more than a decade. Perhaps protected by her fur, Princess actually scored much more damage against Cally over the years. They hissed to the end. In step with pretty much the rest of the universe, Cally didn't really know what to think of the weird and wonderful Pumpkin The Birman – I don't think he even registered with her as another cat.

Cally always occupied the high ground.

One day I broke up a really nasty cat fight outside the house and brought Cally inside, dripping blood. Fortunately her wounds were shallow, but they were extensive and she needed a lot of stitches and the collar of shame. She was well into her teens by now, and I decided that it was time for her to stay inside forever. It took her a long time to recover from her injuries – her skin was very thin and took a long time to knit. I nursed her and groomed her and scritched under the nasty collar. We spent a lot of time nose-to-nose as she lay on my chest sharing the warmth. That proved to be a bonding experience and we were closer than ever after that time. In the following years she hung up her crazy shoes and settled into a well-earned retirement. Eventually we got to the point where I could give her belly rubs, and she would give me little cat kisses. But she still had a hiss or two to remind the younger cats who was in charge.

When the kittens Buffy and Boris Giles entered the scene, Cally at first withdrew to a dark corner under a cupboard. She tolerated the tiny energetic things, but once she'd given them The Stare Of Authority (which they immediately accepted), didn't really want much to do with them. She'd often look at me and ask "What have you done to me?"

Seriously, what is this thing? What have you done to me?

When Cally was ready to re-emerge, Boris Giles developed a severe case of hero worship, and stuck by her side for much of the time. She mostly permitted this, except when Boris Giles became too intense in his worship. Cally was not going to permit anyone to wash her ears! (Except maybe me). But she disciplined the young but rapidly growing kitten with only enough firmness as required for his immediate obedience. "You lick my ear – I'll bite your ear," went the rule. He listened and obeyed, even when he grew to twice her size.

OK fine, you can stay. But behave, y'hear?

Buffy was more inclined to play with Cally's tail, and for a while Cally joined in the play. There was some obligatory hissing, but it was not the serious I-will-disembowel-you-any-second-now hissing, more don't-think-you're-getting-away-with-that-young-lady hissing. Overall I'd say the kittens brightened Cally's life for a while, but in the end she was too tired to bear their attentions, particularly after Princess was no longer there to take some of the heat.

A little space, people, please.

Although Cally and Princess were fierce and bitter enemies to the end, they were companions too, and when Princess' time came a month ago Cally seemed to droop just a little bit more.

And that was it, in the end. Cally got tired. At 21 and after a solid lifetime of cat adventures that was OK. She'd been getting regular vet attention for many years for her arthritis, and outlasted every estimate of how much extra time various treatments could buy. I'd been receiving warnings about her imminent demise for some 7 years, and she gave them all the finger and a fine selection of insulting language. We were as close as a person and a cat could be, and I could see a dozen little signs in her eyes, in her whiskers, in her tail, in her voice. Certainly we could have kept her alive for a time longer, but it would have been on a rollercoaster of highs and lows as the medicines and their side effects warred for control of her shrinking and increasingly rough-furred little body. The decision was impossible to make until one day it wasn't, and I am completely at peace with the timing.

This is the earliest digitised shot I could find. Here Cally is anything up to 6 years old. And squirming.

But oh I miss her. It's taken me close to a week to get this post written because of poor health, and in that time I've mourned her as much as I would a person. She was never "just" a cat, never "just" a pet, not even (not ever!) my baby. We spent a vast amount of time in each other's company. From the blood-soaked beginning she was a companion, sometimes a respected adversary, eventually an ally, and finally the best of old old friends.

Cally was a staunch atheist who would be deeply unimpressed to find herself in Cat Heaven. Cat Hell was too afraid to have her as a guest (she declined a job offer). Cally is now soaring through the cosmos in all the strength and beauty of youth, leaping from galaxy to galaxy, chasing asteroids at will, and soaking in the warmth of a thousand suns on the most magnificently padded window sill there ever was. Maybe she'll catch up with Big Brother.