She Was a Good Girl

We found her 14 years ago under the deck of our house in Aurora, the far-west suburb of Chicago where we used to live. Ted recalls that it was our then-college-student daughter, Megan, who heard the little “mew”s, but she thinks it was him.

Either way, the kitten couldn’t resist the bowls of milk that Ted kept placing on the grass next to her hideout. She had to take a few tentative steps outside, then a few more.

He was finally able to pick her up, and we managed to get her into the car and off to our veterinarian a few blocks away. The gentle (aren’t they all?) doctor told us he suspected she was feral—until she began purring as he stroked her fur.

That is how Olive came to join our little family. Megan named her immediately, as she had Olive’s two big sisters, Clarice and Cupcake.

Although Olive immediately assumed the submissive role, sibling rivalry soon reared its furry head. For Clarice, though, it was more sibling indifference and for Cuppy it became a sort of mentor relationship but with lots of swatting.

Megan told us the name of the new kitty was a homonym for “I Love,” and she later created a painting of an olive with the phrase “Olive you” (an old daddy/daughter signoff), which now hangs in our kitchen.

Shortly after Olive’s arrival, it was time for Megan’s departure. She was a sophomore at Illinois State, in addition to being a gymnast and a cat owner herself. (The topic of Frank and his seeming dislike of Ted has been discussed elsewhere, so I’ll just add this: Megan and her now-husband Phil still let Frank have his own room in their Chicago apartment.)

Another change: We began calling our new cat LaLa instead of Olive. Not sure how that came about, and Megan still refers to her by her original name.

Fast-forward about a decade—through Megan’s graduation and her move to the city and, sadly, the deaths of Clarice and later my beloved Cupcake—we sold our home and moved to Evanston.

LaLa was “queen of the castle,” I’d always tell her. Whenever Ted worked from home, she sat in the den on her perch next to him, “supervising.” Each time I left the condo, I’d be sure to remind her, “You’re in charge.”

She was a happy, playful cat who liked to sit outside on the deck when it was warm. Sometimes, late at night with just Ted, she became Adventure Girl, venturing down the hallway.

She went on long road trips with us, exploring the exciting terrain that was Grandpa’s house in Indiana or hanging out in pet-friendly hotels. When Ted’s father joined us for a spring training baseball trip in Florida, LaLa was a familiar friend near the end of his life.

Earlier this year, LaLa was diagnosed with cancer. Surgery was rough on her, but she eventually got some of her spirit back. But it wasn’t long before Ted felt a small lump in her belly. We didn’t want to put her through more suffering, and the vet told us it would likely be a short time before she simply didn’t wake up, having died without pain.

We dedicated ourselves to helping LaLa “live her best life” for as long as she was with us. Only Fancy Feast pâtés would do, even if she changed flavor preferences by the day. We tried to keep things quiet and calm, with lots of cuddling—but only when she wanted it.

We were fortunate to be good friends with a cat-loving couple down the hall. Since LaLa no longer seemed up for road trips by October, they cared for our girl while we made abbeviated trips to Minnesota—one to see Paul McCartney in concert and the other to the Mayo Clinic, for me.

LaLa was still cuddly and purry last month, but she wasn’t eating as much and appeared to struggle to find comfortable positions.

Then, one day last week, Ted woke me up to tell me she hadn’t come into the bedroom meowing for him and that she was still “soccer-balling” on her perch. Still breathing, but …

In the end we said our goodbyes at our new veterinarian’s office. We stroked her fur as she soccer-balled on a towel in the examining room. We both cried as I sang her favorite Beatles song.

I’ve Got a Feeling we’ll see her again.