Mrs. FU (1984-2007)

I regret to inform you of the passing of “The Last Cat,” Mrs. Fu. She was 23.

Mrs. Fu was one of many kittens born of the bizarre cat, Lilly, owned by Catherine Goff. Lilly had an odd personality and was seemingly born without bones. She could be held upside down without protest…or, seemingly, without notice. Lilly could be seen, frequently, with a vacant look on her face…an attribute handed down to her daughter, Mrs. Fu.

Fu was chosen by my then-wife Sandra and I for the asian-caste eyes that squinted out of her head. I wanted to call her “Chang Qua,” but as I’ve been told by more than one source that I choose “stupid” names … we dubbed her “Fu,” for, I guess, Fu Manchu, and Mrs. Fu because she was female. And Fu spelled “F.U.” because…well, that was her attitude.

At the time of her arrival in our home, Mrs. Fu showed such a predilection for stinky behavior that we worried that she would ever fit in. She was selfish and vain. At every meal, after eating her food, she would then proceed to crowd out the other cats and eat theirs as well. There would be a protest from the athletic, “rescued” farm-cat, Hank, but the passive, sleek Willie would always get out of her way, allowing herself to be cowed, inevitably looking hurt and dumb-founded.

When coming upon the other cats sleeping peacefully, Foozie (as we came to call her) would join them, nestle into the warmth and there would be a short peace until such a time as she would start pushing the other cats away, claws extended, and the inevitable fight would break out with her back legs kicking ferociously, in an effort to disembowel her offending, though warm, “sibling.” Oh, the joys of pet ownership.

Fu was of the habit, at the house on Queen Anne Hill, of jumping out an available second floor window—a habit of Hank’s, who could shinny up and down down-spouts to achieve any floor of the house of her choosing—and sleeping on the roof under the eaves in fair weather or foul. She became so contemptuous of the other cats that her first act after eating the other cats’ meals, would be to yowl for the upstairs window to be opened so she could be rid of the inside world. We might see her shadow pass a second story window during the day, but she would not come back in, even during the most blustery of wind-storms, until it was time to deprive her fellow cats of their evening meals.

Fu was frequently an object of ridicule among house-guests. At one point she ballooned to a whopping 18 pounds, which combined with her long hair, made her appear to be much larger than she actually was. In an attempt to show just how flat Fu’s learning curve was, a dear friend once held a dinner roll over her head, which she gazed upon with fascination (and no doubt, hunger) even as he allowed it to plummet onto her nose, a behavior that was repeated (by both her and said friend) three times until protests were lodged and the experiment halted. It was assumed (falsely) that Fu was as dumb as a stump. She would prove us wrong.

When Willie and Hank passed, I worried that Fu, self-isolating on the roof, would suffer a weird mourning period with consequences I couldn’t possibly imagine. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. When she became aware that she was the only cat in the house (almost immediately), she blossomed, became alternately affectionate and belligerent (instead of simply the latter), and abandoned her usual post on the second floor roof and re-entered the household, more content than I’d ever seen her.

The years passed, and Fu slimmed down to a frail form. She had survived a divorce, a move from Queen Anne Hill to Normandy Park, a week-long chemotherapy to battle an enlarged thyroid. Her meals consisted of a home-made concoction that she enjoyed until the day she died. She seemed content, her days consisting of a meal, sleeping in her basket in the bathroom until mid-afternoon, and then curling up in front of a fire or a passing patch of sun streaming through the window.

Then my wife, Katheryn, wanted a dog.

“No,” I said. “Let’s let Fu live out her last, frail years enjoying the life she has left, and not disrupt it with a dog in the house.” But Katheryn really wanted a dog. So, we got one—a small, little bear of destructive energy…an Australian Blue Heeler we called “Smokey.”

We kept Smokey’s presence from Fu as long as we could, but the two had to meet, and they did when Smokey was safely baby-doored in the kitchen, Fu in the hallway staring in.

Staring.

Staring incessantly.

A penetrating stare that so intimidated the puppy it backed into a cabinet with a paranoid clunk.

But the psychological torture didn’t end there.

Fu would reach through the baby-door with her paw, arching through the air at the puppy. “Come here,” she would entice. And the puppy, being a puppy, and Smokey being more puppy than Nature intended, would happily bounce over to see what the cat wanted.

What she wanted was exercise. Fighting exercise. And Smoke was the punching bag. BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM. Before the dog could react, Fu would let loose a flutter of backhand swats that would knock him back on his ass. He’d lie there, birds swiveling around his head, and Fu would sit, as if nothing happened, content, maybe cleaning any last trace of dog-stink from her paw. Then she’d stretch the paw through the baby door again….as if she were holding a dinner roll.

She held the dog in something like contempt, her lip would curl at his presence, but I did notice the evidence of affection of a sort. When we gave her a handful of kibble, she would eat and walk away…leaving one for the dog.

Robert Altman said “The death of an old man is not a tragedy” (Easy for him to say, he was 92!). But, in the same way, the death of an old cat is not a tragedy. Fu lived a full life—more than full. Most cats get nine lives. She had at least 13. To expect more would be more than selfish. And getting to 23 took a lot of feistiness, stamina, and a belligerent stubborness, all attributes she had in abundance. So no tears here, but a sense of privilege—lucky to have had her so healthy for so long.

And the comfort of knowing that wherever she is, she has found a patch of sun where she can sleep…forever.

Nevertheless, we will all miss her, something fierce.