She’s a southern belle, sweet, gracious, and charming. My friend. Eddy described her as a very nice kitty – much too understated. She is a Lady. An aristocrat. Too gentle, too refined for this world. I do my best to meet her needs. She doesn’t rebuke my inadequacy.
She came to me by way of my friend, Ed Rygalski. One of his cousins, or aunts, can’t remember which, rescued her from an animal shelter in Tallahassee, FL. She wasn’t a kitten; she might have been a few months old. I don’t know how long ago that was. I don’t know her age. but I do know that her age doesn’t matter. Ladies stay beautiful at any age.
Her first human, Eddy’s relative, died within a few years. Another cousin, or aunt, then became her human – this time in Tampa, FL. Years later, she, too, died. Her next human was Eddy’s Aunt Essie who was living in St. Petersburg, FL. Later yet, Aunt Essie moved to Cleveland, OH. Here they remained happily together, until the caring family of Aunt Essie decided that Aunt Essie, at one hundred years-plus, was too infirm to live on her own.
The extended-care facility did not allow cats.
Aunt Essie’s life was marked from this point on. Separation from her,” Tassy”, her beloved “Tassy”, could not be endured. The family had no idea what they had done. They thought they were doing what was best for their dear Aunt.
They did not understand.
All of the cousins and aunts who had cared for Lady Tallahassee loved her very much. None more so than Aunt Essie. Both Essie and Tallahassee were only complete when they were together. They had become two parts of a single personality. Life apart was intolerable. Aunt Essie died within the year. In all the days of that year, she would sit alone softly repeating, “I’m so sorry, Tassy, I’m so sorry”, over and over.
Tallahassee felt the same.
Eddy and Miss Terry went daily to Essie’s empty apartment to take care of Tallahassee. This couldn’t go on.
They tried to find a new home for her. They asked me . . . several times. She’s a very nice kitty”, says Eddy – “a very, very nice kitty”, echoes Miss Terry. “She has nowhere else to go - really”.
Finally, I gave in. “Yes, yes, OK, fine, alright.
I’ll take her”.
She arrived in a pet-travel carrying case. When released, she made a swift crouching exploration of living room, dining room, and kitchen. Discovering the kitchen door to downstairs, she vanished downstairs.
“She’ll get used to it”, said Eddy. “She just need a little time”, said Miss Terry.
I was willing to give her as much time as she needed.
Tallahassee remained downstairs for the next nine months.
Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of her. Food and water disappeared. The litter box was used. There was no other evidence I was cohabiting with a large black cat.
Tally is black from the tip of her nose to the pads of her feet. When she yawns she reveals a flash of bright lavender pink. Other than that, she is completely black. When she walks into a shadow she disappears. She is very good at disappearing.
One day when I went down to fill her dishes I found her taking the sun on top of my copier, which sets just under the window. She did not run away . . . until I moved one step closer. Next day I put a quilt over the top of the hard plastic lid of the copier. Checking later, I could tell by the slight warm depression in the quilt that she liked the improvement.
We were making a little progress.
Nonetheless, I was not Aunt Essie, and
I never would be.
She was starting to tolerate me, maybe even a little more than tolerate. I usually delivered her meals at the same times every day. One day when I was late with her meal, I heard a polite meow, soft but insistent, from downstairs. Communication. This was encouraging.
I would never be Aunt Essie, but I might yet be worth – something.
As the ninth month approached, I tried moving her food and water two treads up the stairs. Every few days I moved them two treads further. This continued until the landing was reached, then, finally, to the kitchen floor. Still, no Tallahassee. She ate at night, then returned to the safety of downstairs. Weeks went by.
One Spring day, toward the end of the ninth month – there she was.
She had made her decision.
It was a full commitment, complete with head-bumps and purring. On the evening of that same day, she slipped into my bed, curling into the crook of my arm, purring.
I felt honored, and enchanted. We have slept together that same way ever since.
Lady Tallahassee is extremely sweet, gentle and caring. It’s a shame she never had a chance to be a mother. She would have been a very good mother – thoughtful, attentive, and cautious. The only important motherly trait she lacks is ferocity. Had she kittens to protect, that trait might have shown up as well.
I never met Aunt Essie. Eddy has described her in much the same way I have described Tallahassee. Was the similarity coincidental, or the result of mutual influence. Probably both. They may also have shared Tallahassee’s commitment to one-person-one-cat-loyalty. The only visitor who has ever seen Miss Tallahassee is my son, Ian. Even that meeting was brief and somewhat formal. Tally appeared, sniffed his shoe, brushed against his leg, then walked off down the hall to the bedroom - where she remained for the rest of the visit.
Eddy and Miss Terry brought her to me. They expected to see her whenever they visited. It hasn’t happened. It may be that Tally fears they will snatch her up, put her in a cage, and take her away to who knows where. It did happen before! Eddy and Miss Terry understand. They love her anyway. Whenever they visit they bring gifts of toys and kitty treats for Tallahassee. I thank them on behalf of Lady Tallahassee, and assure them their gifts will be duly presented.
Tally is not only uncomfortable with visitors; she is uncomfortable with new things of any sort. A good day for her is a day just like yesterday. Her fondest wish is that tomorrow will bring more of the same. Me too, that’s likely why we get along so well together.
That doesn’t mean she’s dull. She does a great deal of research on the birds, squirrels, and chipmunks of the deck. Most of each day is spent at her deck-door observation post.
She tears herself away from this work only for meals, brief naps, and exercise. Exercise consists of mad gallops from one end of the house to the other. This goes on for several minutes, twice each day. A short nap follows each exercise period.
Despite the restraints of her exacting schedule she has managed to capture five mice, one bat, and one chipmunk. How they got in the house, I don’t know. Tally does know, but she’s not talking. The bat, and two of the mice perished. There wasn’t a puncture mark, or drop of blood on any of the three. I rescued the others. I don’t believe Tally intended to kill any of them. She just wanted to play. But, when big creatures play with small creatures, small creatures get easily broken.
I’m partly responsible for the chipmunk incident.
I like to sit out on the deck and read on summer afternoons. Tally sits a few feet away inside, behind the screen door. If she was outside the birds and squirrels would all take off. And, also, she might fall or jump from the railing which is about twenty feet from the ground. One day I convinced myself I could keep my eye on her and prevent anything bad from happening. The birds and squirrels took off as expected. No matter. They would return as soon as Tally went back inside. It went well for nearly a half hour. After touring the perimeter, Tally settled down beside me. All was peaceful and pleasant.
Then the chipmunk came out.
The events of the next few milliseconds were over before my brain could sort out what happened. The next sight I remember was Tally trotting back into the house with the chipmunk squirming in her mouth. I stumbled around, trying to take the chipmunk out of her mouth. In the midst of the chaos the chipmunk escaped. I closed up Tally in the bedroom and searched in vain. Eventually, I released Tally. She immediately positioned herself before the closed door of the guest bedroom. There was a one-inch space between door and floor. Now I knew where the chipmunk went. Tally maintained her watch, breaking only briefly for dinner. I put a sprinkling of birdseed into my Have-a-Heart mousetrap, placed it in the occupied bedroom, and closed the door.
Tally stayed up all night.
Next morning, I found the chipmunk – imprisoned, and thoroughly out of sorts. I took the trap out to the deck railing and opened the door. He flew out like a small furry rocket into the big evergreen bush just beyond. He didn’t show up again until three days later – unharmed.
After that, Tally’s research was conducted only from behind the screen door.
She took it with her usual good grace. Ah well . . .
The chipmunk incident may make it seem that Tallahassee is really just like any other cat. She isn’t. She has an unusual need for emotional contact; more like a dog than a typical cat. She likes to snuggle close and purr. She likes to do that often. That’s often difficult because I’m way up and she’s way down. I thought of a solution. I spend a lot of time sitting in the kitchen on a folding chair next to the countertop. From there, I can watch TV, write, or just stare out the window.
Maybe Tally could join me.
I put a second folding chair next to mine. I opened the silverware drawer and placed a folded blanket inside. Tally leaped lightly up to the chair, then to the countertop, then settled comfortably onto the blanket – just as though we’d always done this.
Now we spend an hour or so each day in quiet affectionate communion with head-bumps, pets, and purring from the close proximity of the silverware drawer. We both gaze out at the birds and squirrels and wonder
at the mystery of it all.
Contentment reigns. All is good.
A very nice kitty? A lady of distinction!
My friend.
Tally in the silverware drawer.