Shadow

It's a shame that cats aren't welcome to roam freely in Toronto anymore. Back in the day, when I had a half-hour walk to school, I used to have a route with stops, like a bus, except I stopped to say hello to cats. Young cats on the prowl, old cats napping in a puddle of sun. They were all reliable friends to me, back in the days when I was lonely and in need of friendship.

These days it's a lot less common to see a cat outside, at least in any upscale neighbourhood. I understand why. Gardeners don't take kindly to cats crapping in their flowerbeds. People who put out bird feeders don't want to see their wee birdie friends massacred. Not to mention that cat owners don't want to see their pets run over by local traffic. So the cats stay cooped up inside, for the most part, and lose their minds.

My first cat was an outdoor cat. She would go out to survey the neighbourhood even on the coldest winter nights. She had her territory to explore and defend. She was also mentally the healthiest cat I've ever known.

All the indoor cats that I've met and cared for, much as I've loved them, have been neurotic, restless, and destructive. They go looking for trouble when they're bored, uprooting houseplants; chewing and clawing their humans' valued possessions; and eating things that aren't meant to be eaten. Instead of maturing into lithe, self-possessed mini-kings of the jungle, they grow up to be fat, whiny babies.

Take Shadow, for example, cat of my first serious boyfriend. That big, dumb lug would eat anything he could fit in his loud mouth. Don't get me wrong - I loved that silly furball. He was very affectionate, generous with the purring. But he didn't have an ounce of sense.

One of his weaknesses was curling ribbon. You couldn't leave an inch of the stuff anywhere around him, or he'd gulp it down like a long spaghetti noodle as soon as your back was turned.

One time, just before Christmas, I used my key to let myself into my boyfriend's apartment. I noticed two things. 1) Shadow did not show up immediately to greet me, as usual. 2) The apartment didn't smell very nice.

I called for Shadow. I heard him answer, a little whimper from a corner somewhere. Then I hear his paws on the hardwood, approaching, gaining speed, and finally running past me in a panic. I could see why. "Something" was chasing him. That something was attached to his derriere. The faster he ran, the faster he heard it coming behind him. Terrifying to his tiny, primitive brain.

After some chasing of my own, I finally pinned him down for an examination. The problem: a length of gold curling ribbon, still curly and bouncing, was hanging from his anus. It was itself "decorated". With poop. In between the poop bits, the gold ribbon glinted in the light. It was... mesmerizing.

That was memorable, but Shadow hadn't shown us everything yet. Several years later, when he was well into his senior years, he fell ill. He prowled the apartment for days, howling, refusing food, straining in the litter box unsuccessfully. At this point he was living with my boyfriend's mother. She made a vet appointment, but the problem resolved itself.

Shadow pooped an entire Bounce scented dryer sheet into the litterbox.

That's impressive in itself, but really. Think of it. How did he manage to eat that sonofagun in the first place? How would you like to gulp down an entire twin-size bedsheet, soaked in cologne? Let alone pass it through your gut, and then your butt. No wonder he was crying.

In the end Shadow passed away of natural causes. His cast-iron digestive tract survived all the punishment that he dished out.

There have been other dumb cats in my life, but Shadow is king in my books. God rest his stupid, snuggly soul. I miss him tremendously, and if I could have him back, even if it meant more chewed gifts and poop cleanups, I'd do it all over again.