Sherry Chandler

8 Comments

• 1. Gin replies at 19th May 2006, 8:50 pm :

  So sorry, Sherry.

• 2. Deane replies at 20th May 2006, 6:14 am :

  I feel for you, Sherry. When my own cat died last November, I faced the fact that grief is grief, whether over a human or non-human. And just because it is a non-human does not mean you get off easy- Peace.

• 3. shamash replies at 20th May 2006, 9:16 am :

  My deepest condolances, Sherry. May she rest in peace, and return with nine more lives.

• 4. poppysmatus replies at 20th May 2006, 11:57 am :

  Sissy was more an outdoor than an indoor cat so her age was respectable. She probably caught 2 or 3 Mice a day for about 12 1/2 years, which is far short of the word record held by the Scottish cat Towser, but the latter lived for 21 years and caught 4/day. Do mice prefer castles to rundown farm buildings?

  Sissy was the daughter of a Black Smoke, Sarah Jane, who showed up at our barn in the fall of 1991. SJ helped rid us of the plague of rats which had proliferated after the death of our male farm cat in 1989. She had one kitten in ‘92 and two in ‘93 and Sissy was the sole survivor of these litters. Even though she weighed less than 4 lbs. she regularly awed our 15 lb. foundling, Bert, and kept him in his place.

• 5. Terry replies at 20th May 2006, 12:33 pm :

  I’m so sorry, Sherry. It’s hard.

• 6. sherry replies at 20th May 2006, 12:57 pm :

  Thank you to all of you. In my sixty-one years, I have owned many cats, starting with the one called Midnight that family snapshots show me clutching in my toddler arms in something like 1946. I have mourned the loss of each and every one. (We also had one called Twilight when I was young.)

  Sissy was, as Poppysmatus says, born in our old cowbarn and for many years it was her preferred place. She was brought into the house when she got pregnant in the cold winter of 1993. She woke us up in the middle of the night, caterwauling and carrying her first kitten around by the scruff. Sissy was wild and tough but never very stoic.

  Though she never weighed much more than four pounds she gave birth to six big kittens that night on the towels in our linen closet. Two of them survive, both 15 pounders. She hated both of them after they got past weaning, especially the female.

  She would winter in the house, holed up in some frequently inconvenient place, but mostly she liked to be outdoors, and she didn’t have the best of indoor manners. She also liked to perch on top of my car, which was not always endearing. Cats can leave scratches on car finishes. When she was inside, though, she could sit a lap and allow herself to be stroked like any tabby. That smoke coat was silky and stroking her was a great pleasure.

  She ranged far and hunted. We don’t have many photographs of her because of that but the one I’ve posted here is like her. You can see the fierceness in her yellow eyes.

• 7. MW replies at 20th May 2006, 6:25 pm :

  The above is how I will probably always remember her. She was always the wildest of the lot, and the best mouser, too. She was a good cat.

• 8. whaleshaman replies at 21st May 2006, 1:19 am :

  Our Cat Enters Heaven
  In the Great Beyond, God is a tough feline that likes a balanced universe.

  By Margaret Atwood

  Our cat was raptured up to heaven. He’d never liked heights, so he tried to sink his claws into whatever invisible snake, giant hand, or eagle was causing him to rise in this manner, but he had no luck.

  When he got to heaven, it was a large field. There were a lot of little pink things running around that he thought at first were mice. Then he saw God sitting in a tree. Angels were flying here and there with their fluttering white wings; they were making sounds like doves. Every once in a while God would reach out with its large furry paw and snatch one of them out of the air and crunch it up. The ground under the tree was littered with bitten-off angel wings.

  Our cat went politely over to the tree.

  Meow, said our cat.

  Meow, said God. Actually it was more like a roar.

  I always thought you were a cat, said our cat, but I wasn’t sure.

  In heaven all things are revealed, said God. This is the form in which I choose to appear to you.

  I’m glad you aren’t a dog, said our cat. Do you think I could have my testicles back?

  Of course, said God. They’re over behind that bush.

  Our cat was very pleased. Thank you, he said to God.

  God was washing its elegant long whiskers. De rien, said God.

  Would it be possible for me to help you catch some of those angels? said our cat.

  You never liked heights, said God, stretching itself out along the branch, in the sunlight. I forgot to say there was sunlight.

  True, said our cat. I never did. There were a few disconcerting episodes he preferred to forget. Well, how about some of those mice?

  They aren’t mice, said God. But catch as many as you like. Don’t kill them right away. Make them suffer.

  You mean, play with them? said our cat. I used to get in trouble for that.

  It’s a question of semantics, said God. You won’t get in trouble for that here.

  Our cat chose to ignore this remark, as he did not know what “semantics” was. He did not intend to make a fool of himself. If they aren’t mice, what are they? he said. Already he’d pounced on one. He held it down under his paw. It was kicking, and uttering tiny shrieks.

  They’re the souls of human beings who have been bad on Earth, said God, half-closing its yellowy-green eyes. Now if you don’t mind, it’s time for my nap.

  What are they doing in heaven, then? said our cat.

  Our heaven is their hell, said God. I like a balanced universe.

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