NOTE: This post has been a long time coming, obviously. I started to write it months ago, then had to put it aside because everything was too raw and painful. I was only recently able to come back and revisit it. I still feel like it's rough and unfinished, but such is life. Here's my long overdue tribute to the girls.
ALICE JANE 
Alice came to me in Minneapolis when she was a year old. Her first owner, a friend of mine from work, was moving out of state and couldn't take Alice with her. I was living in a small apartment and still had Shelby and Riley at the time, so I was worried that a third cat might be a bit much. My friend was 21 years old and....not the most responsible pet owner (not judging, just saying). She informed me that if I didn't adopt Alice, she planned to "put her on Craigslist." That sealed the deal for me. I said, "Fuck that. I'm taking her."
Alice was not happy that first night. She'd been plucked from the only home she'd ever known by some random lady who stuck her in a carrier and brought her to a strange new place with two resident cats who were not exactly thrilled with this new addition to the family. After cowering in the bathroom for a few hours, Alice emerged and started hissing and spitting at me, clearly terrified. I grabbed her, scooted her into the second bedroom, and closed the door. Then I tiptoed in with some water, a bowl of food, and an extra litter box and left her in there to decompress by herself.
She lived in that second bedroom for about a week. I went in to visit with her every day after I came home from work, and I was able to get her to play with some toys and snuggle next to me. I read her The Rachel Papers (Martin Amis’s first novel, which I was re-reading for the umpteenth time) and she seemed to enjoy it. We watched some movies I'd rented from my neighborhood video store (streaming services weren't a thing yet, at least not for me), including an indie flick called Half Nelson, which we both liked.
By the time Alice was released from the second bedroom and made her official debut as a permanent member of the household, she was confident, playful, and affectionate. Although Shelby initially did the typical hissy pissy "I don't like you" thing that cats do with new siblings, she calmed down soon enough and began "allowing" Alice to groom her and even occasionally cuddled with her. Riley was pretty old and infirm by the time Alice came along, so he didn't have much of an opinion one way or another about this new cat. Still, he let her sniff him and gave her a brotherly headbutt once in a while.
to ask why my productivity levels have dropped."
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Riley passed away in 2008, and Shelby followed in May 2009. I was heartbroken and wanted to wait a little bit before adopting another cat. Alice, however, had different ideas. She'd gotten used to having other cats around and hated being on her own when I wasn't at home. I decided to go ahead and start looking at the Humane Society for a possible feline companion for my girl.
Enter Audrey.
Audrey started life as a stray and was found living on the streets of St. Paul. She ended up being rescued by the Woodbury Humane Society in March 2009, and two months later that's where I found her. I walked into the cat room of the shelter and immediately spotted a gregarious little patchwork tiger tabby reaching through the bars of her cage, beckoning me over. It took me about five minutes of petting and talking to her to realize that I'd found my new baby. The shelter staff told me she was approximately two years old and her name was Darby. I loved everything about her, except for that name. I decided she needed a more fitting moniker, something classic and feminine, but sassy. And so Darby became Audrey, and she came home with me the next day.
The first photo of Audrey in her new home, May 2009.
Alice wasn't exactly over the moon about this interloper. As much as she hated being alone, she was not keen on having to adjust to a new cat. (I think she was somehow hoping to get the old ones back.) It took Alice about two months to relax and embrace Audrey as a sister. When she finally accepted her, I breathed a sigh of relief. The era of "The Tabby Twins," (a.k.a. "The Minnesota Twins,") had officially begun.
Audrey was an amazing cat from the very start; a ray of sunshine in feline form. I could wax poetic about her forever, but mere words can't do her justice. You just had to know her. And everyone who knew her absolutely loved her. I always said she could make a cat lover out of anyone. And one day....she did.
Witness John's conversion:
"Hey human? Stop pretending you don’t like cats. I can see right through you."
That look says, "Yeah, I got him."
“Pfft,
whatever. This human was easy.
I spent a lot of time with Alice those last few months. She was a one-person cat, and her person was me. She also had a PhD in cuddling, so we spent a lot of time in her favorite bed (the one in the guest room with the awesome memory foam mattress) where we snuggled and had deep philosophical conversations and watched DVDs on my laptop—including Donnie Darko, one of her favorites—as I did my best to make her comfortable and help her feel safe and loved and pampered. It occurs to me now that those last months with Alice mirrored the first weeks I had with her back when I brought her home in 2007; the two of us just hanging out, having girl time, bonding and enjoying each other’s company.
We ended up losing Alice two days after Christmas. She had an appointment the following morning for an examination at the vet, where I planned to talk to her doctor about the "quality of life" decision I would be making very soon. But that evening of the 27th she took a turn for the worse, and I knew her time was near. I held her close as her breathing became increasingly shallow....and then she was gone. It was expected, but still devastating.
In the meantime, Audrey had also begun slowing down. Instead of losing weight like Alice, she started gaining weight and getting rounder, which in turn put strain on her joints, which made her move around less, which made her pack on more weight, which put more strain on her joints, which made her even more sedentary, and so on and so on. It was a vicious cycle. I took her to the vet in February, and they ran a bunch of tests but didn’t find much wrong with her aside from a mild ear infection. They gave me drops for her ears (which she hated of course—who wouldn’t?) and sent us home.
On the morning of March 3, 2020 John was working in his office upstairs. I was in the kitchen dishing out breakfast for Audrey and Cassie when John called out, “There’s something wrong with Audrey.” I dropped everything and rushed upstairs to the cats’ bedroom. John was kneeling on the floor next to Audrey, who was lying on her side in one of her beds wheezing and gasping for air. I held up her head as John and I talked to her and struggled to figure out what was happening, trying not to panic.
It happened in less than a minute. Audrey breathed in and out a few times, then sort of faded slowly away. John and I were mute with shock. I sat on the floor for a long time holding my little tiger cat, rocking her back and forth, completely shattered. I called the vet’s office, managed to get her doctor on the phone, and described what happened. The vet said it sounded like Audrey had most likely “thrown a clot,” which is is also referred to as a pulmonary embolism, something that can happen to animals and humans alike. As horrible as it was losing Audrey so suddenly, we were at least somewhat comforted that she went quickly and (hopefully?) with minimal suffering, with John and me right there next to her.
That’s the thing about pets: if all goes well, you outlive them and are there to care for them til the very end. That’s the best case scenario. It’s unbelievably heartbreaking to lose them, but it’s the way things should be, really.
Audrey and Alice were the second “generation” of cats that I’ve owned, and if anything they were even more difficult to part with than the first. Not that I loved Alice and Audrey any more than I did Shelby and Riley; you love your cats the way you love your family, and it’s not a matter of loving any one of them more or less. It’s all the same, but it’s all different, if that makes any sense.
So after a short time as a one-cat family, we decided to add two more. This past spring we went to SPCA Texas and brought home a pair of Siamese sisters we named Stevie Nicks and Sabrina. They’re three years old and still full of that goofy young cat energy, chasing each other up and down the stairs, attacking houseplants, and chattering at the birds outside. They’ve lately become lap cats who purr appreciatively when I sing to them (favorite selections include The Doors’ “Hello, I Love You” and McCartney’s “Silly Love Songs.”) I’ll write a bit more about them sometime, but not now.
This post belongs to our Minnesota twins. Forever loved, forever missed.
Shine on you crazy diamonds.
