Yogi was never my favorite cat

Yogi was never my favorite cat, just like I was never a cheerleader or the most popular girl. He replaced, Rascal, an extraordinary cat who thought he was a dog. Rascal roamed the neighborhood for blocks, but always came home when I whistled. He survived getting his head caught in a chain link fence after he trespassed and didn’t see the resident hound in the yard. When the dog charged, Rascal ran without looking and jammed his head through the fence. It took several neighbors holding back the dog and animal control to sedate Rascal enough to free him. He lived several years after that. When it rained or was cold and he ventured outside, he sought refuge in the wheel well of our neighbor’s truck. He backed a Rottweiler down when the dog dared to amble down the alley behind our house. He never clawed the furniture, but left his marks on the crape myrtle in the back yard. I mourned Rascal when he died.

One evening I came home from work and started puttering around the kitchen in an apathetic imitation of cooking. My husband, who usually greeted me with a hug and a kiss, peeked around the corner of the hall. A kitten, mostly white with a black patch on one side, mewled and tiptoed across the carpet. His scraggly black tail curled over his back like the handle of a tea kettle, a trait he never outgrew. “I call him Yogi,” my husband said. “You’ve been so sad. And Tipper needs a friend.”

Unlike Rascal, who gifted me with rats and birds from his daily explorations, Yogi preferred the indoors. He hated automobile backfire and even hid when a visitor rang the doorbell. He had a delicate stomach and bombed us with foul flatulence if fed any dry cat food except Iam’s. I hoped he would outgrow the problem, tried a cheaper brand when he was several years old, but he became constipated and dyspeptic in one day.

Yogi thrived and grew to portliness. He limped for some reason, but managed to get around well enough. He never liked high places, never jumped on shelves, struggled when we picked him up. He preferred solid ground or my husband’s lap. He loved to be brushed and spoke the poetry of cat every morning when he got his brush-du-jour.

Our Tipper succumbed to wanderlust and ran away weeks after we moved to a new house. When we got Yogi a playmate, we saw Yogi as the feline father figure. Smudge was the Yin to Yogi’s Yang. Smudge loved to fly. He climbed the Christmas tree and jumped onto the entertainment center before he was clever enough to figure how to get down. He found a way to get to the top of the refrigerator via the washer and dryer. Sitting atop the fridge with a lion’s mane of thick, long white hair, he seemed to be inspecting his minions from his castle tower. Smudge investigated everything.

Thanks to Smudge, Yogi became a hero. One day, he hung around the refrigerator for no reason, or so I thought. I had been putting groceries away and not paying attention. When I finished, I went into the living room. “Come on, Yogi. Let’s go relax.” Yogi didn’t come, unusual for him since his beloved brush rested on the floor by the sofa. He began to yowl and cry and pace.

Worried he was sick, I tried to comfort him and pick him up. He wanted nothing to do with me and returned to his post by the refrigerator. He amped up his cries and stuck his nose to the crack between the freezer and fridge doors. “There’s no tuna in there for you.” But I opened both doors and out popped Smudge. He had slipped in, his white coat a blur against the interior of the appliance. I had no doubt Yogi saved Smudge from a cold, lonely death.

Despite their differences, Yogi and Smudge bonded. In winter they slept snuggled against each other. They fought and chased and cleaned each other. While catnip made Smudge crazy, Yogi ate it, but stayed docile and pleasant. When Smudge climbed the Christmas tree, Yogi curled up on the tree skirt.

My husband called me at work. “Something has happened to Yogi. I think he’s paralyzed.” He told me about putting out food and how Yogi didn’t go eat. When I got home, I called Yogi. He didn’t budge from his spot outside our bedroom door. I didn’t know what to do. We agreed to see if the problem resolved overnight. If it didn’t, we’d go to the vet.

We watched TV and worried. Then we heard movement. Yogi had dragged himself by his forepaws to the litter box. He couldn’t heft himself over the lip of the box. A trail of excrement followed our noble cat, who above all, had wanted to make it to the box. 

The next day when Yogi saw the carrier come down from the attic, he could not run away. He began to meow, a loud, screeching, desperate meow. Smudge ran to the back door to inspect what we were doing to his friend. When my husband put Yogi in the carrier, he hissed and Smudge lunged and bit down. Yogi continued to cry, and although my husband tried to shake him off, Smudge clamped down on his leg.

The vet knew us well, but he insisted on assessing Yogi’s condition. I sat him on the floor and called: “Come here baby boy. Come here.” As he had the night before, he dragged himself across the floor to me. The vet offered us extreme options he knew we would decline. “I just want to hold him when he dies.”

I comforted Yogi. “You have been such a good cat. You saved Smudge. I loved your tail. I would never let you suffer.” The vet injected Yogi with something; I never asked what. I watched his eyes go blank and shut. His breathing stopped.

Yogi was never my favorite cat, but he was the only cat who saved a friend, who inspired a friend to fight and bite for him, who enjoyed simple pleasures, and who, until his last day of life, wanted to maintain his dignity. I aspire to his courage and nobility.

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