The Orange Cat Diaries

[Editor's Note: This charming essay by Josephine Sherfy was sent to us by her son, Joe Sherfy, and is being published posthumously.]

In my family, cats have always been the pet of choice. I think of myself as a cat person. My cats have always been loving and, in turn, rewarded with good care and attention. I adore marmalade cats. Often referred to as “orange cats” or “orange tabbys,” a true marmalade has no white markings. Veterinarians refer to this species as being “red cats”.  

During my lifetime, I have had a succession of exquisite marmalade cats. Each has been special for one reason or another. For a 10th birthday gift, I received my very first cat.

I named this beautiful orange long hair, “Orange Baby.” Her favorite sleeping spot was an old doll buggy amid several dolls, eventually removed to accommodate “Orange Baby.” “Orange Baby” had real malleability. I could dress her in doll clothes and ride her in the buggy to near neighbors for their compliments. Then it happened, an awful loss. I shall never forget. “Orange Baby” did the unlikely for a cat. She fell while racing up a tree. The vet pronounced a severe neck injury. “Orange Baby” was put to sleep. I was heart broken. It is probable this was the first time I learned the finality of death. Later, there were other wonderful cats, but to me nothing like “Orange Baby.”

Many years later when retrieving a tennis ball from under a hedge I discovered a tiny orange kitten.  Other club players said that the kitten had been around for several days.

One of my tennis friends said she was thinking of taking the kitten home because she felt, “It is surely a lost cat or just ‘dumped’.” I expressed interest in taking the cat. Then, we agreed I should have the cat as at the time I was catless. Following a check-up by a vet and all the right shots, he was named “Marmalade” and allowed the run of the house and garden. What a joy, this feisty male cat was perky and mischievous. He would climb high in a tree and would look down as if to say “try and catch me.”

Sometimes when I called, he ran full speed across the lawn and jump into my arms. He liked to ride in the car.  “Marmsey", as we began to call him, took his first long road trip to the Outer Banks of North Carolina and under supervision enjoyed walking on the beach and running through the tall plume grass.  

When he was a little over two years old, I discovered him behind a door, obviously ill. A short stay at the vets provided a discouraging assessment. “Marmsey” had advanced cat leukemia. I still remember sitting in the vet’s office. Through my tears I could see another client seated with an owl on his lap. Any other day I would have thought, “how wonderful, an owl for a pet,” but on this day I was filled with anger, because nothing could be done to say my “Marmsey.”  

Several years later on a visit to the Blue Dog Pet Store in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, my son discovered a dark marmalade, female kitten. His telephone call described the most gorgeous red cat I could ever see in a lifetime. We met a few days later on US Highway 15, near Gettysburg. As the big rigs rolled b, he handed this most exquisite red kitten to me. From the beginning, I absolutely adored her.  The vet assured me that she was unique because only 10 percent of the world’s red cats are female.  I named her Dorothy.

                      

We had two wonderful years together until she died of a heart attack at my feet. At the very  moment she dropped to the floor, I knew something was truly wrong.  I buried her ashes in my Maryland garden.

After, Dorothy, I said, “No more cats.”  It is too hurtful to lose them. Almost a year later, I received another call from Harrisburg. “Mom, can you come for the weekend?  I have found a marmalade kitten. I think you should see him!” I did go for the weekend and I drove back to Maryland with a beautiful orange kitten. 

I named the new kitten “William Wordsworth." Why? Well, the poet William Wordsworth had sandy red hair and a strong personality! My new kitten had both. I began to call him “Wordsey.” I soon learned  “Wordsey” is quite different from any previous cat. By the time this precious kitten turned three months old, he became a feisty biter! He was not interested in long periods of cuddling or gentle stroking. He would give me a quick bite and jump away. Squirming and biting was his answer whenever I tried to pick him up.

Before long, he began to treat me as if I were his prey. He would suddenly jump from behind a sofa or chair, wrap his legs around mine, and bite. I would chastise him. He would appear guilty and walk away. I soon began to wear long pants around home. Wordsey seemed unloving, territorial, aggressive, and always nervous. Often, he would jump into my lap for gentle stroking. He loved to cuddle at night in bed. I spoke to my vet of Wordsey’s  behavior whose only suggestion was “to file his teeth down.  It’s done all the time! Some cats are just unpredictable!” I was horrified at the vet’s empty comments.   

Some months later Wordsey had the trauma of too many people and the confusion of moving to Austin, Texas. He seemed more frustrated. I had to warn guests and new friends, “don’t pick him up, he may bite!” We had not been in Austin long when one of his bites sent me to the emergency room followed by a $600 bill! My daughter-in-law began to refer to him as “Mr. Hateful.”  My sons suggested we find a place for him with somebody who has a farm. Sending Wordsey out to a strange farm filled me with terrible guilt. He seems so dependent upon me. Often he follows me from room to room, always settling down to nap near me or just to check on my activities.    

Recently, I learned about Dr. David Smith, a cat psychiatrist in Round Rock. Wordsey and I have an appointment with Dr. Smith scheduled for next week. I am already thinking about the horrors of trying to get Wordsey into the cat carrier. Everyone is recommending I wear gloves!