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ANNE SHIMMINS

                         A Little Death

Today we laid Adelaide to rest. She was very practised at resting so it didn’t come hard for her, only for us. And the funeral arrangements were easy; we had discussed it with her in great detail over the last weeks, even down to the shroud waiting in the linen cupboard, a replica of the shocking pink bathmat used to wrap her friend Bad Boy when we buried him years ago. Faded now, mind you, to a more acceptable shade, but known as Addie’s, to be used when….

The grey and white kitten I took home almost nineteen years ago was a pretty thing until the last. All skin and bones by then, but still able to groom herself, still capable of the epic journey to the dirt box in the laundry, the bowl of water near the refrigerator. And still demanding. Of food. Of affection. Knowing her place. Knowing us.

I remember the day we got her. I viewed the abandoned bundle lurking in the shrubbery near the verandah of the boarding house; and fell. We already had two other kittens at home, named Bad and Worse. She was Superfluous, but glad to be rescued from the shrubbery.

For Superfluous, the day’s trama had not ended. Introduced into the domestic environment of 19 Mercer Parade she had to endure the scrutiny of her adopted brothers, Bad and Worse. Cop this, will you, they smirked at one another, prancing around the milk bowl in the far corner of the big old kitchen, just waiting long enough for the innocent newcomer to immerse her head. I was in time to see her blowing despairing bubbles, pushed under by the larger paws of her tormentors. Rescued, she rushed into a dark cupboard. She emerged several days later, coaxed out by fierce thirst but never really fancying milk again. Food was another matter. She was ravenous for food. And remained so for the next eighteen years.

Superfluous did not only just enjoy elevenses. Also twelvses, oneses, twoses and so on. And on. As Bad and Worse grew in devilment, so she grew in girth. Such a pretty face, such a roly-poly body. We teased incessantly about the need for a kitty-girdle, a crash course with Gloria Marshall. She took no notice. Her brother Worse got lost following a child to the bus stop. He survived to terrorise Newtown, and we heard daily tales of his terrible doings as Top Cat of the district. We never owned to owning him, embarrassed by the audacity of his reported exploits. Superfluous didn’t care – it meant more food for her.

With only two cats now, she didn’t seem so superfluous. We called her Adelaide instead. I don’t know why. Perhaps because Addie and Baddie sounded OK. They made a handsome pair curled before the fire next to a slumbering St. Bernard. Although officially designated after "operation" as spinster of this parish, Addie had not completely lost her maternal instincts so the dog received nightly licks and promises, which she accepted in a bemused way. Bad wasn’t so appreciative – he could handle his own domestics, thank you. Occasionally she managed to pin him down for extra attention behind the ears. Pleased, she was, to be of service. Always pleased. Pleased to see me every morning. Pleased to welcome us home from shopping. Frantic to see what we had got in the way of mince or liver. And afterwards, pleased to be nursed or chatted to or taken for a walk to feed the chooks. Because that must mean close to tea time, eh? Her coat glowed with health and grooming, her little nose twitched as cooking smells pervaded the twilight. She looked a picture. I often drew her.

Over the years our circumstances have changed. Adelaide coped well with the changes. Nothing mattered except that we were there and the food bowl was full. When Bad died she missed him but not excessively. I suspect that greedy little mind registered more food, more fire space, more attention. She knew her place and battled determinedly to maintain it.

In the last months of her life she was totally deaf, rather lame and often forgetful. She sometimes set out on journeys but lost the way. Then she needed to be reassured, reconnected with her path to the dirtbox or the food bowl. Without teeth, eating was difficult, but not impossible. It was like feeding a fractious child … little bits accepted with seeming disinterest until the food was taken away. Then she would suddenly want more. She always got it.

Conventional wisdom condones putting animals out of their suffering. When my time comes, I don’t want to be put away, put down. Her will to live was strong. I hope mine will be too. And I will demand the mopping up, the fancy food, the being held securely and with love that she enjoyed until the last. So she hurt a bit. I will too. But a greater hurt would be rejection for the common good. Death when it came for Adelaide was not a thing to fear, just another shared experience made bearable by being fiercely loved, tightly held, gently laid to rest. Shocking pink is cheerful for a shroud.