Her name was Princess, and that cat earned her title every day. Princess owned our home and everything in it. She expected her needs to be met first, not later. She was picky about who could touch her, but demanding when she wanted attention. She was a first class example for all other cats to follow. She also liked to puke on our white living room carpet; but that was our fault, not hers, of course.
I met Princess when she was already seven years old. She was a long-haired domestic of indeterminate breed, mostly black and gray but with a bit of white and tan sprinkled in. She was the cherished companion for my new girlfriend's daughter, Denise (not her real name). I was the interloper. I've had dogs all my life, so I've never really been a 'cat person.' Princess probably sensed that right away.
At first, neither Denise nor her cat liked me much. Navigating my way through a new relationship, I'd hoped to win Denise's heart and cared little about the feline's feelings. Cats are smarter than we like to admit. I think Princess - "Miss P" to Denise - understood the situation perfectly. She knew Denise would adore her no matter how prissy or aloof she acted. Miss P had other plans for me.
I believe that sneaky cat deliberately set out to win me over. After all, she was accustomed to being adored, not ignored. She was devious in her attempts to woo me, however. Part of her plan was to spread thousands of tufts of her flowing fur all around the house. She left her furry gifts on my chair, in the kitchen, and all over the living room carpet. I'm not a clean freak, but there's a limit to what I can tolerate. I spent hours trying to clean up after her. I'm sure she used to watch me and snicker.
I tried to convince my fiance (let's call her Lydia) and her daughter that all Miss P needed was a good, regular brushing. Lydia bought a good cat brush and gave it to Denise for safe keeping. "Princess won't let me brush her," they both agreed. Maybe they snickered, too, when I was out of earshot. I knew my plan was sound, but I didn't realize that I'd be the one who had to carry it out. At first I actually believed I was proving to both girls that brushing the cat was easy. Miss P pretended she hated those brushing sessions, too. Sometimes she would bite me.
I showed her who was boss. I brushed her better. I became an expert cat groomer, keenly attuned to which techniques worked best. It was weeks before I realized that all three girls - girlfriend, daughter, and Princess - were training ME. Eventually, I forgot that I didn't like cats and that brushing this one wasn't my job. Some evenings you could find that big shaggy cat curled up in my lap, brush long since laid aside, and my right hand absently scratching her ears or chin. Sometimes she purred loud enough to wake me up from a perfectly good cat nap in my easy chair.
Princess continued to find new unblemished places on our carpet that were perfect for fresh cat puke stains. It might have been the food we fed her, or maybe she just had a finicky stomach. I'd hoped that more frequent brushing might solve the problem, but it didn't.
She hated my two boys, too. She was willing to take them both on at once, hissing and snarling with hackles raised. Not a chance she'd let either one brush her, much as we tried. Even when my sons offered her fresh tuna from the can (her absolute favorite), Princess remained hostile and intolerant. She was a one-man cat, apparently.
When we moved to a new house, Miss P claimed a spot on the couch - the one right next to me. If I failed to pay proper attention to her, she would stand up, stretch, and reach out with her paw to push aside the book I was reading. I'd dutifully fill the cat brush with her dense fur, then the two of us would settle in for some quality couch time together. Sometimes she'd even let me continue reading, if I kept my book to the side and scratched her chin for awhile.
When Miss P's purring got loud enough to overpower the TV, Lydia would laugh and wink at me. If Denise happened to wander through the room, she'd squint her eyes and send an icy glare in our general direction. Her Royal Highness ignored both of them.
When Princess got sick, I wasn't sure what emotions I should be feeling. Lydia handled the visits to the vet. She also handled the unpleasant chore of explaining the prognosis to her daughter. "Just try to make her comfortable," the vet had advised. "It won't be long." Lydia and I worried about leaving Miss P alone all day, concerned that Denise would be the one to find her when the end finally came.
We needn't have worried. Princess chose her own time: an evening when Denise was out and Lydia and I arrived home first. When we didn't see Miss P waiting in the living room, the two of us exchanged a look and started searching. We checked the basement first, then the bedrooms, without finding her. The silence was unbearable. Finally, I asked Lydia to help me move the couch away from the wall.
That's where we found our Princess, curled up beneath my seat, barely warm to the touch and eternal peaceful. As I eased her body into a cloth, I didn't bother trying to hide my tears.
A day or so later, the five of us gathered in the back garden for a short goodbye to our beloved Miss P. We settled a block of granite over her final resting place there. We shared a few more tears, and my youngest boy laid some wildflowers on the stone.
Every now and then, late in the evening when I'm getting sleepy sitting on the couch with my book, if I listen carefully I can still hear her purring.