Hobbes, July 2008
1991-2009

We took Hobbes to the vet to have her put to sleep.

She’d been fading since this summer. Her few wits were the first thing to go. She’d wake us up in the middle of the night, sitting on the car in the garage and screeching. We’d get up and go see what was the matter, and she’d stare like “What are you doing here?”

Her personality became more kittenlike. She was friendlier than she’d ever been as a kitten, and not afraid of anything. Before when we were too purposeful or she saw another human, she had to go hide. Really, she changed into a pest. She followed us around to be petted and yowled at the back door when I was inside trying to work. I’d finally open the door and she’d be all bemused. “Who are you?”

In late November she stopped taking care of herself. She’d always been a dirty cat, but she stopped even pretending to try. We had to hose clumps of caked-on kitty litter from between her toes. We couldn’t brush all the mats out of her fur, and it was too cold to shear her. She was the garage cat; she’d always been too timid to come inside.

She lost interest in food. (Hobbes!? The chow hound?) So we started bringing her inside each morning for a special treat of moistened cat food. She loved that. She’d lap up the broth, eat a few bites, go outside, then yowl to come back in for twosies.

We started letting her stay inside, but she had no indoor manners. She peed on the floor, and when she peed on the lap chair, she lost unsupervised inside privileges. I won’t go into the catbox details, but there’s another story there.

Last weekend she stopped eating. She’d sniff at it then wander off. A couple of days later she stopped drinking water, and she’d always loved her water.

She was ready to go.

Hobbes the cat, sometime in 2002

Hobbes the Cheshire Cat, date unknown

What's he carrying?

A leafblower!

Can't you make him shut it up?

Well, if you'll rub my belly . . .

What old cats do when the sun comes out.

Hobbes the cat lounges in anticipation of a good brushing

Sydney sits in a flower pot, Hobbes under a table

Blackie insists on sharing a table with Hobbes

Of course everyone wants to see pictures of my cats.

Hobbes naps under the patio glider.

Sydney is Sydney.

What doesn’t help is that Blackie can’t understand why Sydney doesn’t want to be his friend. Aren’t they part of the same pride? He still does the call, checking out where the other cats are, but she has quit her yowling as she comes in from the back because he’s more likely to answer her than I am.

Amazing! A photo of the three cats together. (Sydney is at the upper edge next to the deck chair.)

Hobbes, Sydney, and mouse

Sydney and Hobbes sort of have an agreement: Sydney catches ’em, Hobbes eats ’em. Looks here like Sydney’s rethinking that agreement, or at least is making sure Hobbes knows just which of them is the Mighty Hunter.

I much prefer for Hobbes to do the eating; that cat has a cast-iron stomach. Sydney doesn’t — bird, rat hindquarters, whatever gets upchucked, and she has no shame about depositing it on my office floor. You cannot believe how disgusting it is to clean up bloody cat barf that’s still warm.

Hobbes

Hobbes used to be our scaredy-cat. She puts on a good show of being terrified still, but if she were really scared she’d do her rabbit gallop away from us, not practically over our feet.

When we first got her as a kitten in 1991, she was far more timid than she is now. My daughter admitted a few years ago — after she’d left for college — that maybe the kids’ playing doctor on Hobbes made her so fearful. Geez, who woulda thought?