The Kota Kronical

On Thursday March 29th at 2:45pm I bid farewell to my beloved little companion, Kota Kat Supreme.

He left me as Spring was first touching the hill, buds of yellow forsythia peeking out from dark branches and the first daffodils spreading wide their gold and orange trumpets. Little arrowheads of purple, the grape hyacinths by the front door, pushed upwards. For the first time this year, after weeks of cold temperatures we were blessed with 74 degrees as though even the sun wanted to touch a warm hand to Kota’s fur in fond farewell. The day before I had carried him, with an umbrella shielding us from cold drizzling rain, across the hill tops for one last hike so he could sniff the fresh air and survey his domain before leaving. Today he sat on a cushion on a chair or on my lap, watching as bluebirds flitted across the meadow picking up dry grasses for nests, and listening to a choir of constant birdsong, filling the sky with their symphony, sounding as they too were singing their goodbyes. A very faint breeze occasionally wafted spring smells of new grass and clean earth across to us, Kota’s nose twitching and tipping upward as though the sun’s rays had a sweet aroma,  his eyes closed as he savored his surroundings. A huge blue heron slowly flapped across the sky, feet lazily dragging after it. I kept starting to cry every time I thought of how many hours we had left together, excruciating pain tugging at my insides. But I had to let him go. The cancer inside was hurting and just today his back legs were slowly giving out. The day before one blue eye had turned gold, kidney failure. Kota's vet, who a few weeks ago had told me they no longer made house calls, told me she would come out today for his last appointment, he was one of her favorites. And so we waited for her to arrive, soaking up the amazingly warm sunshine, incredible when so many days before had been wet and cold. God had definitely played a major hand this morning with weather, heavy fog had quickly evaporated to warm sunshine, and also Brian, our neighbor, was away so Kota could have one last assisted walk around the cow shed which was Brian's home. For the last hour he sat on my lap and I watched a turkey ambling up the hill. It seemed the local critters had an idea that one of their clan was leaving today.

As we sat enjoying the warmth, it was now unbelievably in the 70's, I stroked Kota's head and marveled at what a uniquely precious personality this little chap was.

Michelle had begged me many years ago to please take on the small cat her parents had gotten. Her father suffered from cat allergies, so a Sphynx cat with no fur had seemed the perfect pet. But when Kota (or Dakota as he had been back then), started sprouting fur at 6 months, Michelle's father's sneezing fits resumed, and a new home was needed for Kota. I didn't really want to be given a cat. I've never chosen one for myself, I've always had to take them from someone else, so I tried to stand my ground, but upon seeing him my resolve instantly evaporated. He moved in with Michelle and I, quickly making it very clear that he wanted to venture outside, earsplitting yowls from the widest mouth ever crashing down on us from the balcony above whenever we sat out in the backyard. We didn't live in a particularly nice neighborhood so I refrained from letting him out, but when he did get out, he made straight for the tree, resulting in me having to borrow a ladder and retrieve him.

Kota loved trees. Wherever we moved to, he climbed the trees. I only lived in places where he could roam in safety, so he could go outside with no fear of traffic. Meadow House was easily the safest of all our homes, and thankfully he only ever chose to climb the trees nearest the house. I lived in perpetual fear that he'd climb a tree somewhere in the woods across the meadows and get stuck, resulting in me having to traipse back and forth across the huge acreage until I found him. I did live once by Bull Run River and Kota got himself trapped up a tree that stretched out over the water. A kindly neighbor clambered precariously up his ladder and reached out over the depths to rescue him, allowing himself to be scratched in the process as Kota scrambled to his shoulders and clung on tight.

 Kota was always a keen passenger too, often accompanying me to Michael's or Tractor Supply, or short grocery runs, where he would wait in the car while I was gone, only for about 20 minutes at the most. I would sometimes return to the car and find someone staring in at him. He'd sit on the front seat, peering out, and watch the activity around him, just like a dog.

He would also felt he had the right to climb into any unattended vehicle, a few times making a UPS driver turn back to deposit him at home, once the stowaway had made his presence known. He would also make himself very comfortable in other peoples' homes. I heard of an old lady in a ground floor condo who had daily visits from him, he hung out often in Maggi's house and also had a regular perch on her rocking chair in her office. Maggi saw a sight once which she said she'd never forget. On her lawn were one of her peacocks, a local fox, and Kota, all 3 sitting in a triangle and each washing or preening themselves, comfortable in each other's company. Another neighbor once came home, made dinner, called out her dog's name and was surprised to see Kota's head pop up from behind a recliner at the mention of food. I think he was fed.

When I lived close to work, Kota often came too, making himself comfortable in my office or greeting customers in the reception area.

He would often wear a tie to the office, and reveled in the attention he received. He looked very smart, and knew it. Strangely enough, he never lost his ties the way he was constantly misplacing his collars...

When we lived in the condo he always wore collars, just in case he got lost, which did happen twice, because he kept losing them. It cost me a fortune, having to buy new collars and ID tags almost on a weekly basis. I'm sure he had a way of 'removing' them.
Twice, while living in Centreville, he got lost. The first time was for 2 days. I finally discovered him at a local PetSmart, and waiting outside their doors, demanding, when they finally opened, why they hadn't scanned his chip and called me. Kota heard my voice and started yowling loudly. I literally snatched him up and walked away, the staff didn't have the opportunity to ask for ID, not that they really needed to see any, it was clearly evident that we belonged together. The second time was the worst, with him disappearing for a whole week. I walked the local roads night after night, putting up posters and checking all the vets and shelters. Eventually after putting up more posters further afield, I received a call from a student, who had been keeping Kota in his parent's basement and letting him out to their small fenced yard daily. They had a dog upstairs and were close to taking Kota to the shelter. I raced over there and exchanged a $75 reward for a confused looking cat. Kota had wandered through a condo complex, an apartment complex, crossing 2 main roads until he'd ended up in a townhouse community. Never once did Kota show any contrition during his escapades, often instead displaying a smugness as though saying to me, "Took you long enough."

He was an excellent communicator. We often had disputes, often about whether he could go out or not, or if he could have some food off of my plate. I would speak, and he would meow or wail, with direct eye contact. This would go on until I stopped, Kota always had the last word. Even if it was a tiny noise that he thought I hadn't heard. If I responded, then so did he, often with a swishing tail. He would meow happiness too, and this was accompanied with a leap on to me, a trot beside me, or a dash past me, or a pat with his paw. He would look up at me and yowl if he wanted to be picked up, which happened every time I arrived home. Unless I was later home than planned, then a steely narrowed expression would greet me, until I picked him up and apologized with copious cuddles, his loud purrs a sign I'd been forgiven..

 Kota was also the only cat I knew who was aware of reflections in mirrors. Every morning he would sit on the bathroom window sill and talk to me through the mirror, since my back was to him when standing at the sink. I would look into the mirror and make eye contact with him behind me. I always marveled at that.
Except for vet visits I never saw Kota afraid. Storms or strange people, vehicles or other animals, nothing fazed him, he would always investigate. It sometimes worried me about how totally fearless he was, always walking with a hugely confident demeanor.

I loved the way he carried himself. He had some hilarious expressions, mannerisms and postures, almost human. He adopted the Egyptian Spynx pose on numerous occasions, front paws stretched out and nose held high, often with eyes closed. He crossed his front paws, his countenance similar to a knowledgeable professor's, and very occasionally his eyes would cross too. If he wanted whatever I was eating, he'd sit right next to me, his eyes following the path the food made from plate to mouth, and would then stare at me, tilting his head fully to one side,knowing that this would get me hook, line and sinker, tasty morsels making their way to his open mouth with his success.

Obviously, being a cat, a large portion of his day was spent with eyes closed, slumbering in his favorite spots, under a quilt, on a chair in front of the fire, outside in the sun, on the sofa, tucked up in my bed, or in his own bed. He could conk out at a minute's notice, and this meant no loud activities could take place in the house. There were many times when in the throes of housework, after rushing around wiping surfaces, tidying or dusting, I would go to grab the vacuum cleaner and stop in my tracks, spotting a slumbering prince, and have to wait until His Highness was awake and fully recharged before continuing with my task.

Taking photos of Kota was always easier when he was asleep. He was never a fan of having a lens in front of his face, and would twist his head away with ears back and eyes narrowed, when I wanted a portrait. If I moved my position, he would move his, always avoiding the full frontal shots, so I would have to give up and wait for a later opportunity. There were a very few times when he was very obviously in the mood for a photo session and would pose adoringly, letting me take shots from all angles, but I usually had to be fast as his tolerance would quickly wane. But when he was asleep, he had no idea of how many times I would silently loom in over him, breath held, camera shutter silenced, and go about my business like an accomplished house invader.

Stacking wood, a boys' week with Rob, parties, regular hikes across the fields, holiday meals, he wanted to be part of it all. He was a great socializer and would stroll out to greet people in a casual confident manner, nose reaching up to touch their hands. He never wanted to be left behind, but somehow always knew that when I had the car keys in my hand, I'd be leaving without him, so he'd settle down and snooze. Every other time, he'd be at the door wanting to go outside with me. He'd sit on the patio a few feet from me while I stacked wood or chopped up kindling, never fazed by the loud noises. He would expect a chair to be put out for him at fire pit gatherings, and always assumed everyone was extremely pleased to see him. Which of course they were. Who wouldn't be? He sat by me every day, when I was blogging on the sofa, or outside potting or watering plants on the patio, he'd be there. Putting up holiday decorations or washing the car, he had to oversee the operation. If I sat down or laid down, he'd be on top of me. It was a very rare occurrence for him to be in a different room from me.

 We often went hiking together. When we lived by the river he was always trotting alongside me, checking out the river's edge or clambering over fallen trees. At Meadow House, we would go for long walks across the fields and into the woods, or down to the pond. He'd lay peacefully while I read a book, and would even climb up an old tree with me which had a long flat branch which we could lay and doze on. When the Kota Krisis began over 7 months before his passing, he began to lose his energy, but still wanted to go out. At first he'd walk a little way, then look up at me and ask to be carried. Then he'd ask to be put down, and then again after another short stretch he'd want to be picked up again. And so we went on until a few weeks before the end when I'd carry him the whole way. Nearly every evening he'd rest on my shoulder as I trekked across the fields, through the woods, and around the cowshed. He had to walk around that cowshed every day, as though he were patrolling his territory. Sometimes I'd have to wrap him in a fleece against the cold, so that he resembled ET on Eliot's bicycle, his little face peering out and sniffing the air, loud rumbling purrs vibrating against my chest. If the weather was fine, I'd put him down and then lay on the grass so he could lie on my back. We had a regular route and he was content once it was completed.
 He was so interested in everybody else's affairs that it was inevitable he'd end up with his own Facebook page. One of my work colleagues had two small children at this time, who were amazed and very impressed that Kota had a Facebook account, and would often want to see his postings. They firmly believed Kota had access to the laptop while I was at work and that we argued over using it when I was at home.

Before his illness, Kota had regular access to the Big Outdoors via a cat flap. It had a ramp leading down to the ground and he would often just sit halfway in/ halfway out, savoring the air, his tail swishing from side to side. Throughout his life he also always had a Kat Kamp, with a sleeping platform so he could snooze while keeping one eye on anything happening outside.

 If the neighbor's dog came around,he would see it off, often chasing it all the way to its own yard, where it would stand in disbelief, barely able to take on board the indignity it had suffered, then it would stand and bark at Kota, who would just sit down, return its stare, and then chase it further, accompanied by cheers from me and any friends who watched admiringly. Kota was also a very disciplined boy, never catching birds, but instead he liked to sit under the car and watch them feeding. He has touched noses with many deers, and also been close to a skunk and a black bear, both times sitting down when I growled a quiet warning, "No" to him. He also knew that he had to be home by dusk. On many evenings as twilight drew in, I would peer out into the fading light and see him slowly sauntering back to the house, resigned like a school kid who has to be home before the street lights come on.
When he was younger, I shamelessly subjected him to being dressed up on special occasions. As long as I managed to constrain my laughter I could usually get a photo, but as he got older his tolerance disappeared and I had to give up putting him through such indignity.

 Funnily enough though, he never complained when I put his scarf on during the cold or snowy days when he wanted to be outside, despite my insistence that it was much more comfortable indoors. He'd amble out of the door sporting that scarf like a model on a catwalk, excuse the pun.
When Rosie Lee joined the household, rescued from a lady whose yard sale Rob and I had dropped by to look at, and who was destined for the shelter, things got a little chaotic. Kota really didn't want another female around the place and made it clearly apparent that she wasn't welcome. But sweet little Rosie Lee worked him around and finally they were friends. Although Kota was very obviously in charge, and made every effort, when he thought I was watching, to make me think he wasn't enjoying the cleanings and affection that he received copious amounts of from her.

But he really did enjoy having a buddy, even though he was loathe to admit it. She was good company and very affectionate, despite his many rebuffs. As time went by, he succumbed to her constant clamoring and would cuddle up on the sofa or bed with her. I'm sure it couldn't have been comfortable though when they both wanted to sit on my lap.

I have so many photos of Kota, and I'm so thankful that I have them. It was so painful trying to sort through them, trying to eliminate some, that in the end, I just posted all of my favorites. Even looking through them now, I can sense that strong spirit, his unique character. He was a larger than life personality, with more charisma and character than some humans I know. When I look at his photos, there are so many that after a while it almost feels like he's still alive, and then it feels so unfair that he's not still here.
I also strung together a few video snippets of his last few months and his final day. It is here.

With the sun's warm caress still stroking me and little Kota resting on my lap, I looked up at hearing a vehicle. Dr Kollgard and Kathy were driving up to Meadow House. With tears coursing down my face I lifted a non resisting Kota for the final time and gently carried him into the house...

The days afterwards reflected my pain. They were cold, miserable and rainy days, when even if the sun dared to shine it was accompanied by harsh, bitter winds. The house had changed too. Apart from the emptiness and gloom it felt different, as though it too was mourning. Rosie Lee and I stuck close together, although she spent a few evenings just sitting at the patio doors, looking out into the darkness, likely looking for a white movement in the empty blackness.

Emily sent me a beautiful poem which reduced me to a blubbering mess once again:

'Gone From My Sight' by Henry Van Dyke

'I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side, spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone."

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.  Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.

And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone," there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"

And that is dying...'

The day after Kota passed, Michelle and I drove out for lunch. I was about to get out of her car when I spotted a small white feather on my thigh. Later that evening I looked it up and read, "A white feather can be your Angel telling you that any loved ones in Heaven are safe and well."

Rest well little Kota Kat Supreme, I know we'll meet again.