In Memory

Peaches

March 19,2001 - July 24, 2006

She was a calico cat, a big girl with an open expression and an open nature, and somebody, somewhere had named her Peaches.  It seemed an unsuitably frivolous name for a remarkably centered, solid little animal.  Maybe that was why she was rarely called Peaches. Instead, she was Peach or Peachie or the Girrrl or, in the third person, the Peach, a singular creation, apart from other, lesser cats.

Certainly she was more of a people cat than a cat cat.  She approached us as fellow beings, openly and curiously, welcoming any interaction we might provide, and, in addition to the mundane meows of other cats, she had a repertoire of unfailingly cheerful chirps and trills for the occasion.  A “Hello, Peach” would be met with a happy little “brr-up” that seemed to have definite conversational intent.  In return, I don’t think she ever met unkindness, or maybe she simply didn’t inspire it.  She certainly never learned to cower, or to hide or to skulk. 

The world was her friend, and her oyster. Even an expedition down the hallway had its pleasures as she checked out the various doors, investigated the smells and the sounds, greeted anyone fortunate enough to step outside and into her path, this stocky, low-slung and blessedly low-strung animal, planted solidly on her big white paws that almost had something of the lynx in them and waving an elegant, fern-like tail that was always erect, like a personal banner.

She had a kind and open heart, but apparently it wasn’t strong.  The Peach, so seemingly robust, turned out to have a congenital weakness and in the space of a few days she was gone, suddenly and heartbreakingly for those who knew her, who had the unalloyed pleasure of knowing her.  She was like one of those people you may know, maybe they’re close to you, maybe they’re only acquaintances, but any contact with them improves your day and is to be looked forward to.  I’ll miss her.  We all will.

IN MEMORIUM (1 year later)

Humans ask why. It’s one of the things we do that animals, as far as we know, don’t bother with. Sometimes there are answers; sometimes there aren’t. It will soon be a year since my beloved Peaches died too suddenly and too soon, and I still finding myself asking not just one “why” but many.

I remember the day I got her from the Toronto Humane Society. I had only recently lost a sweet, sickly Siamese who had been with me for many years and had always seemed plucky through one malady after another. I wasn’t looking for another cat that day, I swear, and certainly not a female (I’d never had one) and most certainly not a big, calico hairball. Then the strangest thing happened. I’d looked at several cats and had actually left the building, when I had the sudden, unreasoning conviction that I had to have that cat.

By the time I got back into the building, a young couple had already decided to take her (two prospective homes in five minutes; that was the kind of charm she had), and it took much, often emotional, persuasion before I found myself in possession of the single best animal I’ve ever known.

Even then I wondered why. Why her? Did I pick her or did she pick me? What had passed between us in the couple of fleeting seconds I’d looked at her in her cage?

From the very first day, though, there was a connection there, a shared comfort level and instant familiarity, as if we had known each other for a long time. She was bright and attentive, a talker, and had an almost dog-like (no, it’s not an insult) desire to please. I was in a bad place, as they say, for reasons far beyond the death of little Tsuky the Siamese, but Peaches was a ray of light, a sudden gift from someone or something. But why?

Of all the animals I’d had – cats, dogs, horses – I’d never felt that kind of emotional bond or sense of understanding, not just me understanding her but her understanding me. There was a wonderful, wordless communication. I was mesmerized by her.

We had three wonderful years together. Only three. Then a congenital heart defect gave her a blood clot, and within a week she was gone. The vets were wonderful and she got the best of care. They actually told me she was getting better. And then they called and said I should come quickly, but I wasn’t quick enough. She died in a hospital, surrounded by loving professionals but not by me. She was only five.

As I write this, it’s less than a year since she was taken from me, and yes, I think of it like that. A year ago, she was still in my life, still playful, still giving, still “talking”; I’d still wake in the night and feel one paw just ever so lightly touching me. I’d wake in the morning to find her watching me. There seemed no reason to doubt we’d have many more years to come. In fact, we were heading for a new life together in Australia. Not two weeks before she passed away, I finally got her papers in order. The arrangements were all made. And then she was gone.

Why was I given three years with her, why were we given three years with each other, but no more?

Some days the glass is half full – at least we had the three years. Some days it’s half empty – why not more? What had I done to deserve losing her?

People were kind; they offered comfort, according to their takes on life. It was an omen. It was a message. It was God’s mysterious will. She came into your life for reason and she left for a reason. But what reason? Why?

I think of myself as a logical, hard-headed, pragmatic person, but I find myself wondering about “old souls” and the uncanny sense I had from the very first that Peaches and I were connected. Who knows? As Shakespeare said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” Either way, whether she was an old soul or just a very special little animal, whoever she was, she was a gift.

The three years were a gift. Whatever the reason.

Carolyne LaCoursiere
Toronto, ON

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