Over time she became more comfortable, no longer appearing as a nervous blur, but also never seeming to be completely at ease. While our other cat, Kitty, would stretch out on the living room floor like a lion taking an afternoon siesta in the mid-day sun, Dee Dee would spend most days huddled up in the darkness of our bedroom where she knew no one would enter until evening. When she did get up, it was only to tip-toe to the living room for a quick bite, and then to retreat back to her cave.
Admittedly, this submissiveness and continual need for safety kind of irked me. After all, it doesn't get much safer than our house, and I wanted Dee Dee to realize that. I wanted her to be comfortable. I wanted her to be at ease. And so I would be overtly physical with her, assuming on some subconscious level that my aggressively affectionate nature could force the awkwardness out of her and replace it with self-confidence. I was wrong, but it didn't stop me. I would scoop her up in my arms and launch her into the air. She would sail four or five feet through our bedroom and land with a dramatic 'Meow'-- always a little embellished, I thought, for effect-- on our mattress. Without fail, she would follow this up by shooting me a look of considerable annoyance, which was my cue to grab her by the nape of her neck, push her down onto the bed, and kiss her all over her face. This was the antithesis of what Dee Dee liked-- too much human contact was deplorable, and especially when it wasn't on her terms. As I explained to her repeatedly though, if you live here you're going to get kissed and hugged. And as I kissed her repeatedly, and as she yielded to it without any resistance, I often thought she looked as though she was smiling.
Maybe that was the wrong approach. Looking back, perhaps my 'rough love' technique was insensitive and I should have been more accepting of who she was, on her terms. But Dee Dee was an unusual cat, and as such, we had a somewhat unusual relationship. Casual annoyance dominated our day-to-day interactions. She was annoyed with me for being so forcefully affectionate, and I was often annoyed with her for being so relentlessly fixated with water. Yes, odd as it may seem for a cat, Dee Dee was completely infatuated with water. It was the one thing from which she refused to back down, refused to take no for an answer. Her obsession with water, and her need to have every available spigot in the house running at once, was, to put it mildly, merciless.
When I came home late at night from work, she was waiting for me in the bathroom, meowing up a storm that threatened to wake everyone, and demanding that I turn on the bathtub. When I woke in the morning and stumbled toward the kitchen for my morning tea, she was waiting on the kitchen counter, swatting me in the face with her tail, and demanding that I turn on the kitchen sink. No amount of fatigue, no severity of illness, no extenuating circumstances could ever take precedence over Dee Dee's water. And if turning on the water actually solved the problem, or even reduced the problem, well, lets just say that I probably wouldn't be complaining about it now. But in fact, turning on the water would only multiply the problem. Once one faucet was running, she would frequently move to the next one and meow until it too, was turned on. And if the water wasn't running too hard, she would often dip her head in and let it cascade all over her face. While seemingly cute, this practice was much less than practical since having a sopping wet cat walking about the apartment, dripping and shaking water all over our bed, sofa, clothes, and floor, is not exactly appreciated for a number of obvious reasons.
As Dee Dee grew older and her kidneys went downhill her demands for water only multiplied. And so our annoyance with each other grew accordingly. One of the truly unfortunate realities of life is that far too often the real value of our relationships is only realized after the relationship comes to an end. And in Dee Dee's case, that end came surprisingly fast. Over the course of just a few days, she lost the ability to eat, drink, or move, and it became clear that she was suffering. Exactly one year and a half after Kitty died, we said goodbye to Dee Dee.
In general, I'm not a fan of cliche's. I don't like taking solace in fabricated notions of reality. And so it's hard for me to admit, because it's really quite silly, but I sometimes imagine launching Dee Dee into the air, and watching her sail serenely through space, landing in a big grassy field somewhere. And as she lands, she turns and shoots me an annoyed look over her shoulder. But then she looks around and sees Kitty, sees the sun shining, and feels the warm wind blowing through her fur. A stream flows nearby with a steady trickle of water for her to drink from. And as she goes to take a long, cool drink from the stream she seems comfortable, completely at ease, and maybe, just maybe, as though she is smiling.
