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Illustration by Alex Siklos
It seemed propitious that Apricot had chosen this moment to enter our lives. The stray cat with the light orange and yellowish fur started scratching at our door one November some years ago. My wife Maureen was already stretched out on the couch in our living room in what would be her final struggle against the cancer that had spread through her body.
The stray seemed to know exactly what to do to become part of our household. For the next few weeks, Apricot was inseparable from Maureen. He would lie quietly on her stomach while she caressed him. There he would remain for hours – taking up his post right after feeding, sliding off quietly when she got up, climbing onto her stomach when she returned. Soon, however, Maureen’s strength would ebb so far that she could no longer walk without collapsing. A short time later she would take her final breath.
The days that followed were filled with funerals, Shivas, speeches, commiserations, memories and then silence. Now it was only us – two boys of six and 10, who missed their mother, me, their grieving father, and Apricot, whose unexpected arrival and gentle ministrations to their mother won the cat a loyalty from my sons that would never falter.
As a single mom, I think feral cat mamas deserve more respect
That loyalty would surely be tested, however. Apricot was full of surprises. In a matter of weeks, he mutated from an emotional support animal to a feral presence whose relationship with his human caregivers was decidedly ambivalent. Evenings would be filled with prolonged screeching as Apricot waged territorial war against the other feline residents of the neighbourhood. Visits to the vet to repair battle scars and open wounds became a regular occurrence.
But it was another pattern of behaviour that was even more confounding. Apricot wanted to be caressed – rubbing against our legs, jumping onto our couches or beds with a loud purr and then arching and curving his body to be more receptive to our touch. But then without warning, once we stopped petting him, even sometimes while being caressed, he would let out an angry yelp and strike with open claws. Sometimes he drew blood, other times he left marks if our reflexes weren’t fast enough to elude his jabs.
Less than a year after Maureen’s death, matters came to a head. I had started to wonder whether my sons would be better off without an angry feline presence in the household.
I told my senior dog it’s okay to go chase squirrels in the sky, but she had other plans
One day, Apricot had without warning struck out at my younger son and he had retreated upstairs. I was furious and chased my surly orange furred intruder around the house. When my son started crying, I asked if he were hurt. His answer was one I never forgot. He told me that he was crying because he was afraid that I was going to hurt Apricot.
Following this episode, I discovered that both my sons liked Apricot just as he was. They admired his toughness and his resilience as a stray who had survived. They had learned to anticipate his movements in time to avert his attacks and they enjoyed the contest even when they sometimes lost. His outbursts amused them – he was funny. Apricot was here to stay.
So began a decade long process of adjustment to a cat with a prickly personality. Apricot never liked to be held. Placing him in the cat carrier for his semi-annual shots required that I wear thick gloves so that I could shield my fingers against his inevitable attack.
My old cat teaches me how to live my life better
At the vet, I had to explain that Apricot was an unusual cat. One of the vets would later inform me after one such encounter that “Apricot and I have reached an understanding.” I didn’t ask for the details. Not all vets had problems with Apricot – one told me that she actually preferred what she called “real” cats.
More challenging were the visits of children at my sons’ parties and at play. Parents would be forewarned that the cuddly, adorable little orange creature with the furtive eyes was not to be petted and preferably avoided altogether. But neither pre-emptive warnings nor Apricot’s temporary banishment from the house were always enough to protect against unprovoked attacks.
By the time Apricot had reached his seniority, I too had come to appreciate his resilience. But some 15 years after his arrival, Apricot’s kidneys began to fail with no hope of recovery. My sons were young men who no longer lived at home, and at my final visit to the vet, Apricot looked at me for the last time.
The memory of that look lingers. It felt like a curtain had just dropped marking the end of my sons’ childhoods and our slow distancing from those last sweet, terrible days.
Richard Weisman lives in Toronto.