Heather Lende
Good bye to Betty the cat
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Betty the cat was born in an apartment in a big old house overlooking that dock when we had two children and they both wore diapers. Back then I wondered if I would be a good mother. If we would be able to make a living in Haines.
Thank goodness for a reliable babysitter who lived upstairs. She was just a girl of 17. She didn't go to school. Her boyfriend was older, and a fisherman. She liked our children and agreed to watch them while we worked --if she could bring her cat.
My other neighbor Gail knew all about cats. She had two -- Monster, a big fur ball, and Precious, an awful-looking brown creature with one eye. After examining the babysitter's cat, Gail pronounced her pregnant, saying she was so small she'd only have one or two kittens.
She had nine. In my daughters' bedroom closet. I tried to move the kittens up to the sitter's apartment, but the mother cat carried them all right back down.
Six weeks later eight healthy, rowdy kittens were adopted. Two brothers who were marine mechanics helped a lot by taking four. Their boat shop had rats.
One fragile kitten was left. She wobbled when she walked. Her head didn¹t turn quickly when you spoke to her.
My little girls named the kitten Betty and carried her everywhere they went. Because Betty wasn't like other cats- she never scratched or bit- they adored her. She let them dress her up in doll clothes. Five years later two more toddlers would do the same thing with our slow, pleasant cat, carrying her over their arms like the pet in a cartoon I had taped to the fridge, "the cat with no bones."
Betty arrived when we had no idea where life would lead us and has stayed with us through the big years -- starting a business, building a home, raising five children, she even lived long enough to be here when we celebrated our oldest daughter's acceptance into college. Because of her simple habits and daily needs, caring for Betty never changed, while our lives did.
Betty never missed a meal and never ate anything except dry cat food. She didn't lick cream or eat fresh salmon. My husband fed her most mornings. He had to show Betty her food dish and shake it so she'd hear it was full. Every single time he fed her. Otherwise she¹d forget where it was or if she¹d already eaten. My children must think all cats are fed this way.
I remember going out to a friend's place for dinner Betty¹s first summer with us. They lived by the sea, with a great garden in a big barn of an unfinished house, without electricity or running water. We ate fresh carrots while they told us they knew they would always live here. They were so sure about everything I envied them.
When we got home I fed the cat and put her out for the night. Turns out caring for Betty is the one thing we have done, or made sure a house sitter has done, every single day for the last 16 years. I bet we said "where¹s Betty?" more than any other phrase. She depended on us.
Two years ago when our newest daughter arrived from Bulgaria she listened in wonder to Betty's uneven purr. It was the one thing in her new surroundings she understood instantly.
Betty was never anxious about anything. She moved from one home in Haines to the next happily. All I had to do was lay her on a familiar blanket and she'd curl up and take a nap. A small gray tabby, Betty looked good in a chair by the window. During storms Betty was clever enough to hide, but easy to find. She'd be in a bedroom closet.
Betty came up to the cabin in the summer, riding on a child¹s lap in the truck. She¹d sit in the blueberry bushes and watch the wind blow through the leaves.
Betty never ran from any of a number of dogs that came and went in her years with us. Eager Labrador pups licked her twice before losing interest. Betty liked to sleep by the wood stove, leaning against a dog.
At our new house Betty watched the chickadees in the bird feeders from the porch. They'd hop along the gravel right in front of her.
This winter, when my husband realized Betty didn¹t stray far off that porch anymore, he made her a cat house out of rigid foam. I loved him more for being so good to her.
She died resting by the warm stove.
This morning I noticed the scratching post Betty carved in the back door trim. I could sand the grooves out and stain the board to match the rest. But I think I'll keep it, to remind me of a special cat who gave us more than we gave her.