(SUNDAY, JANUARY 3, 2016) Our beloved Pepper, my baby, left us last Monday after a very brief illness. She was 11. A suspected lung tumor; the vet said that cats often hide symptoms for a long time… all I know is that it was about 10 days from signs of illness to her passing. Last Sunday night, she managed to get out of the laundry room, get by me while I was doing dishes and collapsed in front of the Christmas tree in the den. Almost unresponsive, just looking at the lights’ glow. I knew then it was time.
My heart is unbelievably heavy. Pepper was the most subtly unique, quietly extraordinary cat I’ve ever known. A gentle, sweet, petite beauty with perfectly symmetrical markings and a youthful, kittenish appearance that she maintained to the end.
Pepper also had the softest fur imaginable, velvety; a classy, headstrong, heart-of-gold girl with a chinchilla coat.
She was the pick of the litter one early summer’s day. While her siblings were still on the teat, Pepper was sashaying across their backs and heads. She wanted o-u-t. There was no deliberation; this little baseball-sized ball of fur was the one.
Pepper was ostensibly recruited to be a work-hours companion for Petunia (or “Tunie”), a young black cat that I had picked out of a shelter for Andrea that spring. It turned out that Tunie didn’t want a (feline) companion, but Pepper didn’t give a shit. Initially nicknamed “The Leaper” for her fearlessness, Pepper wound me around her little paw in no time; she would slap her much, much bigger sister across the face for trying to bully her. A girl after my own heart.
One of our old jokes was that god, feeling sorry that baby Pep found herself last in line in the brains department, gave her extra beauty… but really, Pepper wasn’t dumb – she was just completely earnest and guileless, rare traits amongst felines. She had an honest face with big eyes – we called her “The Cat of a Thousand Faces,” as she had so many expressions. Our favorite was a look of sour, fussy disdain called “The Jack Lemmon,” straight out of Glengarry Glen Ross. It was dead-on, and hilarious.
Our feline Lon Chaney was as cuddly as any kitten, but she would not purr until she was about a year old. All of the sudden, she had a small-block V8… very calming. At about this time, Pepper curiously began not wanting to be on laps, or be held. Couldn’t stand being held anymore. Oh, Pepper was the sweetest cat and always loved to be petted – but it became a thing of arm’s length (or tail’s length) connection.
Pepper had a prehensile, question-mark tail, like a monkey’s; laying near me, she would wrap it around my forearm while I petted her. Her tail would also whack me like a dog’s; I’m not sure if she was reassuring herself, or me. Perhaps both. While she would very, very rarely get on my lap, my stomach or hip was fair game in bed – after the obligatory kneading. She also like to get “in her cave” (under the covers) and sleep against my butt, or the back of my legs. Pepper still has a little red pillow between ours, where she’d sleep when not on me, Andrea or on a pile of Andrea’s clean clothes left on the vanity. On countless nights and afternoons, stroking her fur or listening to that small-block purr was the last thing I’d remember before dreamland.
With her adopted sister, Pepper spent days, weeks at a time on guard duty, holding vigil with Andrea in bed… leaving only to go to the bathroom and eat. With Tunie’s departure last spring (a successful, but I think fatal escape attempt), Pepper kind of bloomed a bit more. She took her sole sentry duty very seriously, and even recently returned to Andrea’s lap in the living room after several years of refusal to do so – she had quit trying to vie with prima donna Tunie for lap space.
Pepper did not meow. Well, she had a kind of meow, a wail, really, that she rarely vocalized… sometimes she’s wake up from a nap to a quiet house, and think that we’d left without her noticing. She’s pad down the hallway, crying, until we woke up from our naps – or came out of our offices. While largely silent (except for that purr), Pepper was a master “tapper” who also used the “wet nose” to get my attention. She was so subtle, she’d often just use the “ghost whisker” – a faint brushing of my leg by one of her majestic whiskers.
Every day, Pepper would also “post up.” Sit patiently by the bathroom (need more food or water) or the bedroom (getting late, time for bed, guys) until one of us noticed.
What sort of cat tells you it’s bedtime? And speaking of water, Pepper would only drink filtered water (chilled, please) out of a heavy glass tumbler, and (save for an occasional taste of ice or whipped cream) would never eat human food. Neither sister would. You could leave a whole chicken or turkey on the table, and it would still be whole in the morning.
She was frightened by my sneezes, and my sneezes alone. Pepper would react with a quasi-“death chatter” – that curious sound that some cats make when they spy a bird through a window. Strangest thing.
Pepper also didn’t cotton to strangers much, and was afraid of babies and small children. She was always an indoor cat, and unlike her sister, never wanted to leave the only home she’d ever known. Her one vice was getting into closets or cabinets, and going to sleep. She’d never come when she was called, and more than a few times we’d comb the house, looking for her.
The house is so quiet now; odd, given that she didn’t make much of a sound. I realized the other day that it was my voice that was missing. For 9 of her 11 years, I was at home during the day with her – and every hour or so involved checking in with Pep. On Grandpa’s chair, on the couch in the den, on Andrea’s desk, on a discarded towel by the heat vent. By my feet. “Pep, hold on, I’m trying to type.” Impossible to type Qwerty just with the left hand; it’s not a piano.
When will I stop checking those places for her, out of habit?
Many, many years ago, I decided to try to teach Pepper a phrase, as if I were Dr. Doolittle. After all, she knew words like “Mama,” “water,” “bedtime.” How about something more intangible? Every day, I made a point of saying “I love you” to her at least once, and meaning it.
It was that phrase that I whispered over and over to her as we waited for the veterinarian, in her final minutes. Cradling her like a baby – the only way she would ever be (briefly) held, rocking. “I love you, Pepper.” Sedated, she didn’t struggle this time, just looked up at me and listened. I know she understood.
I feel like I’ve aged 20 years in the last week. I’m tired. I know, I’m just a foolish, dumb, middle-aged slob who once took a tiny kitten home. But she was my friend for 11 years, a constant. Pepper was here for me – for us – when no one else was. She was good for my blood pressure. She was just a good little cat, and in the past week it’s been a matter of realizing what she brought to the household (sweetness), rather than what’s been taken from me.
Pepper was laid to rest in a manner befitting her stature in, and service to our tiny family. She was buried with a brand-new catnip banana that arrived in the mail just before Christmas; her old, tattered, dirty banana – that she often took to bed with her – is still on the bedroom floor. I think I’m keeping it.
We thank with all of our hearts Dr. Cavanaugh and the staff at All Creatures Veterinary Service in Arlington for their unbelievable generosity and compassion – just not for Pepper, but for our family. Words are insufficient to describe how I feel about those people, especially Cholette Ness. Pepper had a kidney condition, and Cholette’s skill with a hydrating needle – coming by our house twice a week for a year and a half or so – kept Pepper so youthful and healthy, almost to the end (Pepper’s last bloodwork showed excellent kidney function). But Cholette just didn’t look in on Pepper, she looked in on us. Hers was often the only face not associated with Swedish Hospital that we would see for weeks. The sort of bravery it takes to not only be in her profession, but to choose to be emotionally involved with strangers – to be our friends – well, that’s truly divine in nature.
(Journalist Steve Stav’s journalist wife, Andrea Miller, died of breast cancer later that year.)
