“Clo-vis, the kitty cat, the kitty kitty kitty cat.” That was my little singsong for our special guy, Clovis. He passed away Wednesday, November 17, 2021.
Clovis led a good life, one far better than the one he was born into. He was rescued about ten or eleven years ago by a previous girlfriend of David’s from Liberty State Park; he was with another cat who was later rescued, and who disappeared with the girlfriend. He was afraid of people and clearly not domesticated; David slept with him in the bathroom until he was trained, and even after, he never worked out to be an indoors cat. He had free roam to come and go as he pleased through a cat door David’s father rigged in a basement window.
I met Clovis not long after David and I started dating seriously. I only knew him at the house, but it was clear David loved him very much and, according to cat tradition, Clovis had fond feelings for David he would not outwardly express. He did like a good game of race, when David would come in from the driveway to the house, and he had a somewhat punctual schedule of getting groomed at the bottom of the stairs by whatever human entered the front door.
I’m not sure where I fit into his life, but as I took on more co-feeding duties and learned how to give him attention, he seemed to warm to me. He did not like “the kangaroo”, where I would hop and rotate ninety degrees in place, or “the crab”, moving sideways with arms and legs stretched wide. However, this past summer as I worked at the house, he would curl up in his chair next to me (it was indeed his chair; David and I have both been kicked out by expectant eyes), or he would curl up on the couch while we watched TV or I played Xbox.
Like many cats, he was not fond of the “Va-koom”, but he didn’t seem bothered by the table saw in the living room, or the pull saw upstairs, or much of anything else. His favorite spot was on an old couch in the corner that caught the most sunlight; outside, he enjoyed a grove of cherry trees, or occasionally would take shade under an old evergreen tree.
He was the terror of the neighborhood. In his prime, he would regularly bring rabbits and chipmunks, living or no, to share with us, or more likely to teach us how to hunt. We are, after all, just other cats, albeit strange ones. There will be multigenerational lore amongst the local rodents about the spackled stalker who once hunted these grounds.
On the other hand, he was clumsy. In particular, one time we had a large ball of rope we’d use for decor, and it swung like a pendulum close to the floor. He watched it go this way, then that way, then back again. He took one step forward and was clocked before we could do anything. He seemed to have only wounded his pride, shocked that anything could surprise him inside the house.
It was very, very difficult to see him go. He’d begun to slow down in the past year or so, but he was still active, would still play race, would still curl up, and occasionally bring us meaty gifts. However, about two weeks ago he seemed to stop eating, and after a couple of days trying to encourage him, we took him to the vet, who prescribed some medicine for him.
The medicine didn’t get him to eat more, and he was barely drinking any water, and so we took him in to the vet again, who sent us to an emergency vet who had the equipment to scan him more thoroughly. What they found was evidence of likely intestinal cancer; the only way to know for sure would be for more testing that was considerably more expensive. We were given prescriptions for more medicine, and decided to keep him home for comfort rather than in a caged, unfamiliar place.
That was this past Monday (November 15). He did not last long, and we were ready to take him in to be euthanized, but he beat us to it. How many cats can be said to die in their own homes, with their loved ones? Especially an outdoor cat.
We miss him terribly, but are glad his suffering has ended. He was a good cat. We loved him, and he evidently loved us. Rest in peace, Clovis.
Incidentally, he is not named for the Frankish King, nor for the paleolithic North Americans, but rather he was named for a character from short stories by an early twentieth century English writer.