Ode to a Writer's Cat

By Tara Reade

Ode to a Writer’s Cat

By Tara Reade

Yesterday, my cat Che Guevera, also known as Bumpy, died suddenly as I was thousands of miles away in exile, under political asylum living in Moscow, Russia. Cats, particularly writer’s cats, represent memories, relationships, and moments in time. Cats often sit beside us in quiet contemplation as we create. However, Che did much more. He was a force of nature a bit of a scamp, a comedian, a rogue with an elegant, white, fluffy, fur coat. His large blue eyes, human like, with their intelligence would stare down the fools.

My daughter crying softly on the speaker phone in the wee hours of the morning in America, at a sterile room in a vet hospital had me speaking to him on the phone. Che wrapped in a 50$ Santa Cruz towel, gave all his strength to meow three last times at my voice, then silence. Che taking his last breath, he slipped quietly away without a fuss. His death was not remarkable, his vibrant cat life was notable.

Many famous writers discussed their love of cats. Hemmingway loved cats and stated, “A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.”

Che was at my side for work projects, appearances on media, a book, failed essays, parts of a novel, and a manuscript later published. Che provided what we writers describe as inspiration, and also a bit of chaos.

I had a boyfriend living with me years ago that both adored and dreaded Che, he nicknamed him Bumpy after the New York gangster, Bumpy Johnson.

“Tara, this cat is straight up gangster!” He would say. Che would look at me while he was bathing himself as if to say “Hmmm, at least someone in this place sees me.” The Bumpy name was because he would bite our toes in the morning and disrupt us if his breakfast was not prepared on time. He would tear through the house in the middle of the night pursuing the other cat or imagined prey, knocking over a lamp or anything that made loud noises at 3am.  Che liked this particular tall boyfriend because he loved to be on high surfaces lording over everything. When said boyfriend departed for good, Che sulked for a bit and as my friends would come over to analyze the ended relationship over wine; Che would hang out staring at me as if to say, “Well you messed up this time, NOW, who is getting my wet food on time?’

Che knew over the years that I had pretty shit taste in men. If there was a malignant narcissist, an unsuitable suitor or just an unemployed loser type, that would be the guy for me. Che stood by me through all that but would become indignant and loud over moves that required car rides and travel. Che would howl his displeasure from the back seat at the indignity of it all.

Che also had a way with any of my female friends, regardless of age, size or if they liked cats. They LOVED him. “Oh my God,” one of my friends exclaimed who never liked cats, “ He is sooooo soft, look at his eyes.”

Che would snuggle his limp, long body to her touches and stare at me smugly. He loved popcorn in an obsessive way so that if I had some out he would eat it (especially white cheddar flavor) and even steal the bag where I would find him. The same friend would feed him popcorn after I refused him, as I was teaching him boundaries around food, “Oh Tara look how cute he just loves popcorn”, giggling at him as he chowed the popcorn down.  Che turned licking his whiskers staring at me balefully. I rolled my eyes.

One of Che’s quirks was to open doors with his paws, working at closed cupboards, pawing at like a puzzle until he opened it. The contents inside were not important as the ability to open most anything and drag out whatever it was and knock it over. He loved to knock down recycling, garbage bins, anything fragile or glass on a shelf.

Once, I had a glass figurine I had placed on my dresser. Che stared at me without blinking as he knocked it on to the ground with his paw and I tried to catch it, never breaking eye contact. Every year he would wait until the Christmas tree was decorated in full regalia and then race the other cat to the top toppling it in the middle of the night. Once, while I was taking a bath with candles lit, Che opened the door with his paws scrambled, losing his balance on the side of the tub into the water, panicked as he was knocking over the candles spilling hot wax on me and he accidently set his own tail on fire. I ran naked to catch him as he bolted through the house with fire on his tail, tackling him with a towel. Amazingly, he was unhurt. I had wax burns on my thighs and chest.

His antics evoked hilarious stories. His outdoor activities involved bird and bunny murders that haunt me to this day as he was a powerful hunter. Once, he dropped a live field mouse on me as I was sunbathing. I screamed as the poor, tiny mouse went scrambling to safety. Che calmly stared at me scornfully that I was unappreciative of his gifts.

Che loved to “help” me write, which included him laying across the keyboard and freezing my laptop several times. Che would settle in with me to snuggle as I would sit to begin writing, he would sometimes  drink my coffee if it had cream or almond milk. Once, he dipped his paw in my whiskey and tasted it. Che shook his head furiously at the taste, bathing himself and stared at me as what I can only imagine to be judgement. Once, in a bid for my attention, he knocked over a glass of water on to my keyboard. I was furious and stomped into the repair shop about my sad tale of my cat getting water in my laptop. The technician geek stared at me and the damaged laptop and said quietly, “First, there are no cat mistakes only human errors and second, you should not have liquid near your electronic devices.” The store cat, a huge, orange tabby agreed, blinking at me in solidarity with the tech guy. I went home, 1200$ less and Che vindicated for his actions.

The last time I saw Che, I was packing for Moscow, Russia. He did as he often did, laying inside my suitcase getting his white fluff on my clothes, as if he could come with me or stop me. I stroked him and kissed him telling him I would be right back. I did not come back home. My daughter said Che adjusted but lit up hearing my voice on the phone. Then, Che went to where I could not follow him. So, I will remember him in his prime jumping and leaping after dragonflies, chasing other cats, sleeping with me peacefully, sitting next to me as I write, or just wreaking havoc for laughs. He was a good writer’s cat. And I can now say I loved a great cat, and he loved me.