Kiki
By
Cecilia Manguerra Brainard
"Kiki"
is part of Brainard’s
collection, Out of Cebu: Essays and Personal Prose, available from the
University of San Carlos Press in Cebu City, Philippines; it is also
available in Ebook from Kindle and Nook. A
version of “Kiki” appeared in the anthology Cherished: 21 Writers Celebrate Animals They Loved and Lost, edited
by Barbara Abercrombie, New World Library;
Facebook
Profile of Kiki D’Rose: I'm 10 inches tall, slender with hazel
eyes, and black hair with red highlights. I have nice long whiskers and a bushy
tail. I generally have a pleasing personality unless you cross me. I like tuna,
steak, chicken, salmon, and the canned cat food (the small cans)
Relationship
Status: It's Complicated
Birthday:
January 15, 1990
~~~
Kiki D’Rose’s
letter to a bulldog named Mack Nificent, Facebook Entry - June 8, 2009:
Dear
Mack,
Glad
to see that your Feeder finally got your Facebook Account going. I can’t
believe she put you down as one year old in the first place. Anyway, I
understand I hurt your feelings by saying I couldn’t tell your front from your
behind. I’m sorry about that. Sometimes I say things that others misunderstand.
I know this sounds like I’m excusing myself, but it’s because I was the runt of
the litter and didn’t get enough breastfeeding from my mother. My Feeder had to
bottle feed me. Mother was—for lack of a better word—a slut. She was
barely a year when she had us. Imagine, not even a year! She blamed her Feeder,
a flighty student who forgot to bring her to the vet to have her fixed but the
truth is that my mother was a gad-about who enjoyed staying up late in back
alleys. I do not know my father, but I assume he was one of those late-night
encounters behind some garbage cans under the moonlight. He was no doubt a
tuxedo cat like me and two of my siblings. The other three had white fur, like
Mother.
That time of my life
wasn’t the best: six of us, vying to be close to Mother to suckle. The
rivalry between the white ones versus the tuxedo ones was very intense.
Unprovoked the white ones drove us from Mother’s teats. The two males fought
back, and got their share of milk, but not me. Mother should have nipped those
wicked siblings. But no, she lay there, licking herself―that was the only thing
she knew, grooming herself―while hellish fighting went on right under her nose.
This memory is making
me wheeze and I will stop now. I just wanted to say, sorry, if I hurt your
feelings. But seriously, you may want to take a look at your profile picture
again.
Yours
Truly,
Kiki
~~~
In
1992 we had two cats, a neurotic white female named Fraidy and an old male who
used to be the tom of the neighborhood but who at 19 was deaf and had failing
kidneys. His name was Chintzy, and he was beloved by all members of the family.
When he became blind and in pain, we brought him to the vet to be put to sleep.
I felt relief more than sadness over his death because he had been
uncomfortable for some time. In fact I tortured myself wondering if perhaps we
waited too long to put him to sleep. It’s difficult to make those decisions. In
any case, after Chintzy died, I literally and metaphorically opened the windows
to air the house and release any darkness and sadness. Fraidy, the white cat
settled down to be our only pet. She had always been a dour cat used to being a
second-banana all her life, and she was surprised at getting attention that she
had never experienced before. She was enjoying her new status and would now
jump up our laps when we watched TV and even dared sleep on our bed at night, a
privilege that Chintzy had.
My
husband, too, made adjustments to our new pet situation. “That’s it! Just one
cat, no more.” He knew more about cats than I did. I grew up with German
Shepherds for pets; our cats were relegated to catching rats and lizards
outside. It was my husband who wanted cats in our home, not dogs. “Cats,” he
said, “are more independent and don’t need as much care and attention as dogs
do. “For one thing,” he said, “cats know when to stop eating, unlike dogs,
who’ll finish all the food you give them.” It was true that we could go away on
weekends and leave food and water for our cats and they’d be just fine. But
overall, I found our cats to be aloof, demanding, somewhat arrogant creatures,
unlike the exuberant dogs of my youth who pounced on me when I returned home
from school, and who followed me around, begging for attention.
Soon
after my husband’s decision to have only one cat, our eldest son, Chris, showed
up holding a kitten just six weeks old. “Can she stay here for a little while?”
he asked us. He had broken up with his girlfriend and was moving soon. The
kitten was a long-haired tuxedo cat with black fur down her back, and white on
her belly; part of her face was white; she had a crooked black mustache,
scrawny and a female to boot.
“We’ve
decided we only want one cat,” my husband told Chris, “and you know we prefer
male cats with short hair. Female cats are bitchy — remember Grandma Dinah’s
Siamese that would piss on her clothes when she got mad? And long haired
cats shed, and they have fleas…”
Chris
handed the black and white kitten to his father; it was so small it fit the
palm of his hand. “We just got rid of one cat, we don’t want another one.” The
kitten crawled up his arm and made her way up to his neck. “And look at this
long black fur.” She started to lick his cheek. “Well,” he said in a softer
voice, “just until you get settled up there and then you can pick her up.”
That
never happened, of course. Kiki (a name given by the girlfriend) entered our
lives when my husband and I were in our middle age and Chris was leaving for
law school, our middle son was in college, and the youngest was in high school.
It was a busy household with a very upset white cat who probably had hoped she
would be the only cat, and who now looked at the black-and-white kitten as an
unwelcome interloper.
Kiki,
on the other hand perked up when she saw Fraidy and quickly headed for her
belly, wanting to suckle. Fraidy, a virgin cat without an ounce of maternal
instinct in her, hissed and swiped her with a paw. Kiki tried again and again,
and the white cat became hysterical, growling and carrying on until finally the
kitten got the message and left her alone. For a couple of days the two cats
avoided each other. But later on I saw Kiki sneak up on Fraidy, who was sunning
herself on the fourth step of the spiral staircase. Kiki reached up and
grabbed her tail, setting off another cat fight. Kiki took to waiting behind
doors and pouncing on Fraidy, which left her even more frazzled, more nervous.
Kiki
learned to be the perfect pet. When you picked her up, she purred loudly and
snuggled up against you, thoroughly content. She would even bat your face with
her paw, a friendly tap, as if to say, “Hi, there…”
She
slept on our bed and, on cold nights, would crawl under the blanket to lie
right next to me. She never resisted when I held her tight, and I did this
often because I hated cold nights and Kiki was warm like a furry hot-water bag.
She would wait a few minutes until she thought I was asleep, and then she would
carefully disentangle herself and return to the exact spot I had picked her up
from.
In
the early morning, she would jump off our bed and run downstairs and out the
cat door to do her business. Then her day began. She had breakfast; outside she
would sit in the sun and groom herself―on what used to be Fraidy’s favorite
sunning spot, the fourth step of the spiral staircase. In the spring, when
there were many sparrows about, she’d catch birds and drag them into the house.
She never killed them, and despite my hysterics over the flapping birds, she
would continue to do this until the last spring of her life. In the afternoon,
she moved back into the house to nap on the couch in the den or on our bed. In
between all these activities, she’d search out Fraidy to bat her tail or whack
her behind. In the evening, when we were watching TV in the den, she would
climb up on my husband’s lap to sleep or play. They could sit quietly on the
chair for hours, my husband doing the crossword puzzle or Sudoku and Kiki
napping. “She loves you,” I would tell him. He’d shrug and say, “She’s a cat,
she uses people.”
Meanwhile.
Fraidy took to spending most of her time in our neighbor’s yard. One day, our
neighbor called to ask if our white cat was depressed, because she spent most
of her time sunning herself on their dog’s marked grave.
Fraidy
developed cancer on her ears, and the vet explained that this often happened to
white cats, since they had no melanin to protect them from the ultraviolet rays
of the sun―just like humans. Fraidy developed black spots on her ears that
turned into ugly sores. The vet lopped off most of her ears. “You must put
sunblock on her ears and nose if she goes outside. In fact it would be better
if you kept her indoors.”
We
decided to turn our master’s bedroom upstairs into Fraidy’s room, and put her
litter box and food and water in the bathroom. She had a sleeping pad on the
bedroom floor, and her sleeping blanket on our bed. We left the bedroom door
closed to keep her in and Kiki out. I nursed Fraidy in our bedroom for the next
four years. She thrived on this arrangement.
Kiki,
however, was furious she had been driven away from our/her bedroom. One didn’t
have to be a pet psychologist to know that Kiki was angry and jealous that her
nemesis had the most important room in the house. She must have blamed me for
her exile from the bedroom, because she turned cool toward me, preferring my
husband instead. She didn’t hiss at me or resist when I picked her up, but for
the longest time she wouldn’t purr. And she made no eye contact with me. When
my husband held her, her purring could be heard throughout the house―as if she
were saying, “I love him, I love him . . . but not you.”
~~~
Kiki D’Rose’s
letter to a kitten named Sundance; Facebook Entry, June 10, 2009:
Dear
Sundance,
I've decided to mentor you. You are
young and innocent and there is much to learn to be able to survive in this
world.
Perhaps the most important advice I
can give you is TO BE CUTE AT ALL TIMES. This is vital to your existence. By
"cute" I am referring to both external and internal cuteness.
The external is obvious. When
we cats are born, we are normally cute: small, furry, fluffy, with
heart-rending cries that tug at the Feeders' hearts. But that kittenish
cuteness does not last. Do not think that for a moment, otherwise you will be
doomed!
No, we cats have to learn to
groom ourselves constantly. My mother taught me that. Lick your fur, wipe your
face, especially around your eyes and mouth. I do not have to mention your
privates―that is obvious. And chew some grass to clean your teeth and sweeten
your breath. Fleas can be a problem, especially in the summer, but hopefully
your Feeder uses Adantage or Frontline once a month. It's a bummer getting
treated; I myself feel queasy for a couple of days afterwards, but in the long
run, it's worth it. You don't want fleas on you. Fleas can cause worms, and
that's a whole other problem altogether, very un-cute to say the least, to have
wiggly worms in your poop. Your Feeder will NOT find that endearing.
Don't
forget to clean your ears, otherwise you might get ear mites, and Feeders also
find that disgusting.
The other kind of cuteness I want to
address has to do with making a real effort to win the heart of your
Feeder―totally and completely so that he or she belongs to you for the rest of
your life. Even when you become old like me, he/she will still think you are a
delightful kitten.
Look at me, I'm 17, very old for a
cat, but the Woman-who-opens-cans thinks I'm incredibly cute. She takes
pictures of me, checks on me constantly, makes sure I have my favorite food
(including people tuna, salmon, and bits of steak―really, anything I want). She
is at my beck and call. This is because I won her heart completely when I was
young.
I saw the picture of you on the shoulder
of your Feeder. That's good. That's a start. You have to learn to climb on her
lap or get into bed with her and snuggle up close. You have to purr, even when
you're not in the mood. For some reason Feeders think purring is very cute. You
should also bat their faces with your paws. And don't forget to lick their
faces; they also think that's cute. You have to be constantly visible to them.
When they walk into the room, there you are laying on the bed, softly snoring;
when they walk into the kitchen, there you are looking straight into their
eyes, meowing; when they are working at the desk or in the garden, there you
are sidling up against their legs; when they are watching TV, there you are on
their laps. It is the constant contact that makes you become so much a part of
their lives that they come to believe they could never exist without you.
Once this happens, you can have
anything you want. You can just about do anything you desire. I say
"anything" not "everything" in this case because while
Feeders can forgive occasional outbursts of temper from us cats (I myself have
scratched the Woman-who-opens-cats when she pissed me off), they will NOT
tolerate peeing or pooping around their house. That can get you in serious
trouble; in fact, that could be a death sentence.
I will close for now, Sundance,
because I have to run to the rose garden while the sun is still up. It was
cloudy this morning but now the sun is out and I adore lying around our rose
garden.
I am attaching a picture of me on a
bed, to prove my point about getting what you want when you play it right.
Yours truly,
Kiki
~~~
Years
later, long after Fraidy was gone, I would look at Kiki and think, You and I
are getting old. She started having difficulty jumping on our bed; sometimes
she limped; she spent more time napping; and she would nip your hand if you
touched her lower back the wrong way. But she always remained playful.
Chris
had become a lawyer by now, and he moved near us with his new girlfriend, who
wanted a cat. My husband, who constantly dreamed of simplifying our lives,
volunteered to return Kiki, and they took her to their two-bedroom apartment.
Kiki peed inside their shoes and on their clothes, including the leather jacket
of the girlfriend, who, fortunately, laughed it off. Our son was not so
good-natured, and one day he burst into our kitchen holding Kiki. Hands
shaking, he handed her to us and said, “Take her or else I’ll take her to the
pound!” Unfazed Kiki sauntered to the den, jumped up on the couch and began
grooming herself. She looked smug, as if thinking, This is where I
want to live. Don’t ever try to change my life again.
But
changes did come. Kiki’s life revolved around our house and garden and a bit of
the neighborhood—a small planet. The neighbors’ cats came and went; she had one
cat friend who was also a tuxedo cat, but older; one day he stopped coming
around. She watched Fraidy take the last trip to the vet. Kiki saw our house
evolve: a bedroom becoming an office, the front yard acquiring a gate. She
watched my husband and me gain weight, begin moving more slowly, and start
talking about doctors and dentists more. She watched our three sons grow
taller, and saw them come and go as they went to college, returned home, found
work, lost a job, fell in love, fell out of love, or got married. And
throughout all this, Kiki was a fixture for all of us, the one thing permanent
in our lives.
She
disliked the grandchildren; she did not like children touching her. The sudden
uncontrolled movements of the young ones made her nervous. When she saw them
coming, she would shudder with disgust and run off to hide in the garden or
upstairs in our bedroom. This did not discourage the grandchildren’s awe, and
they would shout excitedly when they saw her: “Look, Kiki’s here!” as if she
were a unicorn, a rare and beautiful creature.
At
one point, our ages were the same, mine in human years, hers in cat years. Her
black fur had faded and picked up a reddish tint; my dyed black hair had done
the same. I felt there was a bond between us, and it was a bond that went
deeper than the color of our hair or fur. One night the bed was too high for
her, and she fell when she jumped up. We found a footstool to help her. She had
gum and tooth problems, and I ignored the vet’s suggestion to have all her
teeth pulled out. She healed, and still had enough teeth to bite you with if
you stroked her the wrong way.
She
still preferred my husband’s lap to mine until the very end, but she knew she
could rely on me. I was the one who took her to the veterinarian, who Googled
her illnesses, who popped pills into her mouth, who brushed her thick black
fur, who cleaned her remaining little teeth with a finger contraption, who gave
her mercury-free people tuna or bits of steak, who cajoled her into drinking
water when she was very ill. It was difficult to watch her grow old, like
watching myself heading down the same path. And the fact of it was that Kiki
had become so much a part of my life and myself that I couldn’t imagine not
having her around. Even her naughtiness and arrogance had become loveable.
I realized I loved this cat.
Sometime
during the 17 years we had her, a reversal of roles took place. Kiki ceased
being our pet who tried to please us; she became the master, and we her
servants who tried hard to please her, or at least I did. Until the end I was
her nurse and secretary, jotting down her imagined missives in a blog, as if
giving her voice would make her live a little bit longer, just a bit longer,
even when she would look at me pleadingly as if to say, “Let me go. Stop
forcing me to drink water, and eat. I’m tired.
~~~
Facebook Entry,
June 12, 2009.
Dear
Woman-who-opens-cans,
I understand you have been writing
about me and posting my pictures in cyberspace. I trust you realize you have
done so without my permission. Is it true that you ridiculed a recent hunting
expedition of mine? And I also understand you have been talking about my recent
illness, bandying it about for the entire world to know. I do not mind so much
when you say I've lost weight, but I take offense when you describe my fur as
being "three-toned." I don't know if you've looked in the mirror
carefully, at your own hair―"three-toned" suits you better. I have
long-forgotten the original color of your hair. And talk of weight, I wish I
could say that you've lost weight. Au
contraire I detect some puffiness around the middle, probably from all the
lokum sweets you stuffed yourself with in Turkey. Shame on you.
I will, for now, let this
matter go, but I give you fair warning that I may not be so patient the next
time you malign my character so publicly, and I will take proper legal action.
Truly Yours,
Kiki
~~~
She
would spend hours in the rose garden under the bougainvillea bush, where she
could watch and listen to the birds and squirrels. She stopped sleeping on our
bed, preferring the den couch. Perhaps climbing up on the bed became a
nuisance; perhaps being close to us, being touched by us became an annoyance.
She retreated from us and communed with nature.
One
gorgeous spring day, Kiki was out in the rose garden—a black-and-white cat
lying contentedly under the bougainvillea covered with brilliant red flowers.
The rose bushes displayed huge blooms of red, yellow, and pink. I could
hear the birds twittering in the bougainvillea. I had done all I could for her,
including carrying her in my arms and whispering affirmations: You
can do it. You’ll be well again. You have to eat. You have to drink so you’ll
live. That day, Kiki was comfortable and happy in her
rose garden. I went to my office to work. Then suddenly I heard a meow,
and when I looked up I saw Kiki enter my office. She had something in her
mouth―a baby bird, which she dropped in front of me. I jumped up; the
fluttering of the birds always upset me. Kiki looked straight at me; she had an
expression, something in her eyes. I realized the baby bird was her gift to
me. I picked her up, hugged her tight. “Thank you,” I said.
~~~
Facebook Status of
Kiki D’Rose – July 6, 2009: It's just too hot to lie around the rose
garden today!
Facebook Status of
Kiki D’Rose – July 7, 2009: When
it's hot like today, the birds are quiet.
Comment
by Chris: Kiki, you the best.
Comment
by Kiki: Didn’t you dump me on the
Woman-Who-Opens-Cans when you went to law school?
Facebook
Status by Kiki D’Rose – July 8, 2009: A
bird in mouth is worth more than two in the bush.
Facebook
Status by Kiki D’Rose – July 9, 2009: The sun's up, the birds
are out, time to go to the rose garden!
Facebook
Status by Kiki D’Rose – July 10, 2009:
The baby birds have learned to fly. No
catching birds until next spring.
Facebook
Status by Kiki D’Rose – July 11, 2009: I’m
not enjoying the TV programs tonight.
Facebook
Status of Kiki D’ Rose - July 22, 2009: I’ve
been feeling under the weather. Must be the heat.
Facebook Status of
Kiki D’Rose – July 29, 2009: Kiki
D'Rose passed away July 28, 2009. She was 17 years old. Her health had been
fragile for a few years now, and she'd almost died two or three times, but
managed to survive, but this time she didn't make it. She stopped eating and
became weaker and weaker for a week. Her Family did all they could to cajole
her to eat... but she wouldn't. Most members of the family were able to hug her
and say goodbye to her the night before she died. She was purring. She was
found dead on the kitchen floor at 5 a.m. and later she was buried in her
beloved rose garden.
Her
family is very sad but grateful to have enjoyed her company for 17 years. She
was a bit naughty but a lot of fun. We are very sad and will miss her a lot.
~~
tags: pet, pets, cat, cats, kitten, pet grief, animals
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