"Foster"

Sydney M. Williams

 

Essay from Essex

“Foster”

June 5, 2022

 

“No heaven will ever Heaven be, 

unless my cats are there to welcome me.”

                                                                                                                                Anonymous

 

We lost our first grandpet a few days ago. Foster, a black cat, was born ten years ago in a stone wall near the shore in Stamford, CT. She was the runt in a litter of five. For several months she, her siblings and their mother lived a feral life, until the kittens were found and brought to an animal rescue shelter, where our son and his family, then living in Greenwich, saw them and adopted Foster and her sister Clover. Three years later the family moved to Lyme, CT.

 

While her passing is cause for sadness, we must remember that Foster lived a happy life, one unimaginable to her mother, who, with the absent Tom Cat, had to scratch out a living on Stamford’s waterfront, while protecting her young from rats and other vermin. Safely ensconced in the Williams household, she and her sister were fed, petted and loved, especially by the four children. Because of coyotes, great horned owls and other predators, Foster and Clover became “indoor” cats. Wistfully, they would look out the windows at birds and squirrels, but if they wanted a snack, they trotted upstairs.

 

As a breed, cats look down on the human species, as Winston Churchill once noted. Like James Thurber’s “William the cat,” most feel that they are the center of the universe. But that was never true of Foster. Apart from an annoying habit of sharpening her claws on the furniture, she was without “attitude.” She was gentle and loved to be petted. 

 

Besides being survived by her sister, she also leaves behind Maisie, a rescued Maine Coon cat. Maisie, with her fluffy tail, has what P.G. Wodehouse called an “insufferable air of superiority.” She treats me with imperious disdain, as if my shirt were untucked, or my fly unbuttoned. A fourth four-legged member of the Williams’ menagerie is doleful-eyed Bailey. Like the cats, Bailey was not to the manor born. However, there must have been several Beagles in her immediate ancestry, as she would not be mistaken for a Doberman or a Dachshund. I doubt that Bailey was ever one of Foster’s closest friends, but they were certainly conscious of one another’s presence. Bailey may sleep more easily with Foster gone, but I suspect she will miss her.

 

One of the most difficult of life’s lessons is to learn that everything that lives must, at some point, die. For a Mayfly that would be 24 hours, while a Galápagos tortoise might live for 175 years. A spruce tree in Sweden has been dated by geneticists back 10,000 years. But it, too, will at some point die. Foster had ten years of quality life, not long for a house cat, but she left loved.

 

As with people, it is better to celebrate a life than to mourn a death. That does not imply a hardened heart; remembrance of a life well lived is the best way to deal with the heart break of death. Foster lived well and happily. She had a sister and a human family that loved her, along with Maisie and Bailey who respected her space. Sadly, Foster also had cancer. A transfusion and drugs, a few months ago, gave her more time, but the ravages of the disease caught up. Last week, her human family took her to the veterinarian, and she died peacefully in the arms of our oldest grandson.