Ode to a Scrappy Girl

In late October, I said goodbye to a feisty little member of my family. The goodbye seems to be taking a while. Today, for example, I glanced up from raking leaves in the back yard and for a moment, expected to meet Nacia’s penetrating gaze in the window—body still, face calm, plumage regal. The imprint of that visual memory is bittersweet and very slow to fade.

Nacia’s daily routine took her to different vantage points around the house, depending on the sun position and neighborhood activities. We could tell what she was looking at from subtle shifts in her body language. When her ears and head flattened and lowered slightly, and her body took on an air of quiet menace, that meant a dog was in her territory. Her body vibe was completely different when human passers-by spotted her in the window. She’d sit up just a little straighter and pleasantly meet their gaze, like a homecoming queen on her throne.

I met Nacia in 2014 at Rocky Mountain Feline Rescue. In this free-roaming, no-kill shelter, some cats had the run of the whole building and an outside enclosure, while others were in special rooms based on their personalities and circumstances: very shy cats, semi-shy cats, kittens, and cats with feline leukemia or other infectious diseases. Nacia and Silver, the other cat we ended up adopting, were both residents of the semi-shy room, along with about 15 others. Each cat had its own space, food and water dish, sleeping spot, perch and litter tray.

We strolled around, reading nametags and petting the cats if they seemed up for it. Nacia leaned into my hand and flop-rolled onto her side, looking at me earnestly with wide, round eyes the color of dark honey. Her head, ears and back were a warm grey with soft hints of tabby stripes, contrasting with her plushy white chest ruff and snowy belly. The subtle tabby stripes also adorned her legs—grey with white socks and silky pantaloons in back.  Her feathery grey tail arched up under my hand.

Across the room sat the elegant Silver, watching us intently from her perch. A short-haired, strikingly marked silver tabby with a white belly and legs, her grey fur was on the cool and frosty end of the spectrum, with dramatic black stripes and symmetrical markings. Her thick undercoat felt like a luxurious cushion under the smooth surface of her fur. Her eyes were pale jade in color and slightly crossed. Her affectionate and outgoing demeanor was on full display as she twined around in a stripy spiral.

After another hour or so of wandering around meeting cats, we chatted with the staff and learned a little more about Silver and Nacia’s backgrounds and personalities. Each had been at the shelter for several months and had lived challenging lives. Silver, age three, was on her second stay in shelter care. Her first adoption had ended when the woman who took her in became unhoused, necessitating Silver’s return to the shelter. Nacia was a two-year-old stray who had been found in a shallow den she’d dug in the dirt around the base of a cell phone tower at Denver International Airport. In the den with her were five kittens, who were about a month old. She was so frightened that the rescuer who found the little family was able to secure the kittens right away, but had to work for several days to cajole their mother to safety.

Nacia’s wariness never completely disappeared. She had hair-trigger reactions to sudden movements, loud noises, or any unpleasantness. By contrast, Silver, despite readily laying back her ears and deploying a threatening hiss if Nacia came too close, had a more equable nature. But she too experienced the effects of a stressful, unpredictable home life and a prolonged stay in a shelter.

They thrived in our quiet household—a cat-loving couple in their 60s. As they settled in, their personal “stay away” spaces gradually diminished. Sometimes they would even groom each other after their afternoon naps on the bed.

I’m still getting used to seeing just one pile of fur on that bed on a sunny afternoon like today.

It was mid-summer when I first noticed something odd about Nacia’s face. Her yawn seemed a little bit crooked, like Elvis Presley’s smile. A few years ago, she’d had five teeth pulled, and I wondered if more dental issues were surfacing. I gently examined her teeth and gums, watched her eat, and all seemed normal.

But that Elvis smile turned out to be an early warning. A few weeks later, she started coughing, and a vet visit revealed the presence of an ear infection. Her head started tilting to the left, she stopped eating, and her balance was diminished. We coaxed her back to eating and drinking and limited her access to her favorite high perches.

For a week or two, she seemed to improve slightly and she put a few ounces back on her whisper-thin frame. But then the balance problems returned, the ear infection lingered, and she was recommended to see a neurological specialist. It turned out that there was a mass in the inner and middle ear that was either an infection or cancer. When she didn’t respond a course of treatment with strong steroids and antibiotics, we assumed the worst.

Throughout her treatment, and despite her illness, her providers found her to be bright, alert and feisty. During one of her neurology exams, the vet told us she’d first hissed at her and the medical team, but that was “all talk.”  Soon afterward she welcomed their attention and gave everyone rubs, or as we called them at home, Nacia hugs.

Another caregiver came up with my favorite description of her: scrappy. Perhaps Nacia’s scrappiness came from the days when she was surviving in a precarious den and keeping five kittens alive. In any event, scrappy is a down-and-dirty, yet admirable quality. “Determined spirit” is Merriam-Webster’s definition.

Nacia did have a determined, direct approach to everything. Many times I’d chuckle to see her set her intent, then go for it, pedal to the metal. Scrappiness got her through the good days and the bad. It infused her curious, lively personality. It kept her chasing her tail every day of her life. It showed up in her style of play: lightning fast, yet elegant and acrobatic.

In her last weeks of life, scrappiness helped her jump onto the bed when she wasn’t sure about sticking the landing. It helped her to figure out in just one day how to walk an inch or two away from the wall on her left side, so she wouldn’t tumble over. It helped her take hold of a piece of food after a dozen tries.

That attitude made it very hard to make the decision to euthanize her. We admired her gallant spirit in the face of adversity. But the cancer would have won out, and as the saying goes, it would have won ugly.

As sad as the parting was, I now have smooth and easy access to the imprints she left in my sensory landscape. Like the shape of her crouched body and twitching tail, as she looked out the window for imaginary enemies in the wee hours of the morning. And the rapid-fire, percussive sound of her feet as she galloped down the stairs after a toy. Or the feeling of those four feet, with their feathery toes, as she executed a softer-than-soft landing on the bed, gracefully touching down and nestling in to sleep. Peaceful sleep. Au revoir, scrappy girl.

Tags: cat personalities, remembering lost loved ones