Vale Scyllytrypx.


I am grieving.

My favourite; my little all black cat, not a white hair on her body, until
she started to get grey hairs; half my warm and friendly little salt and
pepper set; I suspect is no more.

Scyllytrypx.

What a strange name, you may say. But it reflected her personality: Silly
tricks. Like her lifetime partner, one week younger, all white, Ddyllytrypx
- dilly tricks. If you remember the Asterix cartons, you will understand;
and as you know, all cats have a silent "p".

I got them in approximately May 1985. The black one first, and the white
one about a week later. They were both about six weeks or so. My two
familiars, sort of. My mother used to complain that they both wanted to sit
on her lap in the last year or so of her life, but she never really tried
to discourage them. So until July 2003, is a good life for a cat I suppose.

When I went to pick up the white kitten, I took my new little friend with
me to see if the two would get on. I had her in the cane carrier on the
front seat facing me. She went crazy, trying to get out of the carrier,
slashing the arm of my shirt as I changed gears. On the way back home, the
white kitten did the same trick, but the black one now huddled quietly in
the back corner with eyes as big as dinner plates, watching her companion.
She was always the quiet and dignified one after that.

I haven't seen her since Wednesday, not totally unusual in the past, but
now something feels different.

She always used to bound up to me from her hiding places in the front yard,
whenever she heard me as I walked out the front door.

She loved to cuddle, and be held and would purr and drool happily in my
arms, even on her back. She would let me do anything to groom her; claws,
ears, eyes, worming: anything without struggle or complaint. So trusting.

She was always the expert mouser. The white one would beat her up and steal
the catch, so she would just go back out and get another, or lie down quietly.

I have been affected of late with something that tested positive as Ross
River Fever, and would stagger out to feed the two of them. The white one
would make a big fuss and push the black one away from the food bowl, so
she would take a nibble and come back later. She was always uncomplaining,
and would always try to give a friendly lick to the white one, even when
snapped at.

On Wednesday, I went out the front steps to eat breakfast in the sun about
mid-morning. The black cat made a beeline for me from an unusual place in
the front yard, a spot in the sun. She was walking slowly.

She usually detoured round the pot plants and came up the middle of the
front stairs, but this time she just made a beeline for me, which brought
her to the side of the steps. She clumsily tried to walk over the pot
plants and knocked them about, and couldn't make it up, falling a few
times. I lifted her up, and noticed that her back legs seemed to be stiff
and awkward.

I immediately checked her thoroughly all over for ticks, even behind the
ears. There was nothing anywhere. Her little pink tongue often used to
stick out when she was just waking up, but it was out further than usual. I
tickled her tongue as I usually do, and it took a long while for her to
pull it in. After a good cuddle and rub all over, and checking her
thoroughly, she seemed to be all right, just tired. I put her down, and she
seemed fine, perhaps just a little unsteady.

I opened a can. She licked some of the gravy from the can, as she always
liked to. The white cat didn't appear when I called, so I lifted her and
put her down in front of the bowl, as usual. She started to eat, and I
thought she seemed normal.

I went inside and came back a little while later. She was still eating,
which was unusual, as she was usually only a light eater, taking a small
amount, then coming back later when the white one was satiated, even in the
rare case that the white one wasn't there too. When she finished, her tummy
was very large. I gave her another cuddle, but she wasn't very interested
and slowly walked away.

On Thursday, I had to go up the street to the post box twice. The white cat
was unusually crazy, seeming panic stricken at my leaving the property. She
tried to follow me down the busy street footpath until three houses,
wailing all the way, until I came back. I didn't see the black cat at all.
She always used to be the first one to the food bowl, as she never left the
yard, but the white one would wander two or three houses away, and come
when I whistled.

On Friday, I didn't see the white cat either, although the food
disappeared, but I do have crows, and I have been wondering if they were
getting at the food on the front verandah. They seemed to be cleaning up
any bones or scraps left in the front yard.

I looked in some of the favourite hiding places where little Blackie used
to be in the front yard, but couldn't see her. I didn't feel like too much
exertion, taking in to account my current condition. I wondered if the
white cat had found her, and was sitting by her grieving, as Whitie didn't
come when I called her for food: something she never misses.

This morning, in the light, I looked more thoroughly in the front and back
yard and under the house as best I could, but there was still no sign. The
white cat was hungry as usual, but more subdued after eating breakfast. I
will keep looking, as I owe my friend one final small dignity, no matter
how much the pain it costs me.

And I realise that she has done one thing more for me with her passing. In
grieving, she has released much of the pent-up energy caused by being long
term mature age unemployed, short of money, having the Council try to sell
my house for one quarter's back rates, and Centrelink constantly stopping
my payments. But I am not sure it is a price I wanted to pay.

I miss my favourite little black furry friend.


Vale Scyllytrypx.


© Robin Hayes
All Rights Reserved.
Sat 19 July 20003

P.S. On the Morning of 17 Sep 2003, my neighbour came to tell me that he had found the White Cat in his back yard. Vale Whitey!


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