Chi Chi

Many of my closest friends haven’t been people at all—they have been dogs and cats. I have been animal crazy my entire life, a trait I like to think I inherited from my father, who descended from a long line of veterinarians and horse trainers.

I grew up with a wonderful bullmastiff, Rebel, and have adored the two coonhounds I have had in recent years, first Rufus and now Delia. But there were many years when I only had a cat, or two or three.

I found my first kitten in the woods behind our house on my sixth birthday. She was just a baby, apparently abandoned, a fluffy little ball of calico fur. We searched for her mother to no avail. She got her name when my little brother and sister, who were just a year old, tried to say kitty, but it came out Chi Chi. My parents agreed to let me keep her because it was, after all, my birthday.

Chi Chi was my constant companion. I fed her human baby food through my doll’s plastic bottle until she was big enough to eat on her own. Fortunately it did worked, though she never grew bigger than perhaps seven pounds. Her preferred sleeping spot was under the covers next to my feet, and when she was ready for me to get up, she nibbled my toes.

Then one day, Chi Chi got sick. She had no energy and looked pathetic. I begged my mother to take her to the vet—something people didn’t do much for cats in those days. But the vet could only say that it was probably a virus, and that she either would or wouldn’t recover.

She didn’t. She began to disappear, and I’d find her hiding under the house. My father explained that some cats, following their instincts, run away when they are very sick and feel vulnerable to predators.

Chi Chi spent her final few days lying at the foot of my bed as I recovered from a bad sore throat. She didn’t seem to have the strength to object, and though she was skin and bones, she still purred when I stroked her. I would carry her outside several times a day to do her business, but she wouldn’t eat or drink or get up on her own. Emaciated, she finally jumped off the bed one day and stumbled down the stairs.

When she got to the door, she collapsed. Our housekeeper, who had watched the sad procession, ran over, scooped her up, and set her out, so she’d know she made it outside. I buried her in the woods behind the house, where I found her seven years earlier.

I’ve had many cats since, each very special in their own way. But little Chi Chi has a special place in my heart and always will.