AND THEN THERE WERE NONE

Mali’s Passing Came with an Unusual Story

A benign visit from the spirit world was a gentle reminder that one day each of us will pass into a new one

When we moved into our new house eleven years ago we brought with us a tribe of nine cats ranging in age from four to twelve years.

We called them our Nine Little Indians — the tenth one we’d recently buried before the move. After a few summers our old argumentative, broken-tailed Willie-cat passed away at age fourteen. My husband Michael located an area in the backyard suitable for a new pet cemetery.

We dubbed it the Cat Garden.

Last month Mali-girl left us for the spirit worlds, ending the dynasty of thirteen cats we’ve raised and buried during our 23 years of marriage. Mali was the last cat purring of the nine who moved with us. A few weeks shy of twenty, she outlived all of her own babies and all others who were considerably younger.

She was rescued as a haughty, knocked-up pregnant kitten with an attitude, and for years she occupied the lowest rank in the hierarchical order.

Always snobbish, her superior attitude won her few comrades as the feline family grew. Even her own kittens preferred the company of the big male tabby named Yellow Man.

But Mali never seemed to mind. She had her own affairs to attend to, and over the years her status gradually ascended due only to her longevity.

By the time Mojo the dog joined the family, and Bernie Uncle Ernie the cat was rescued at a Big Lots store, Mali was established as the matriarch. She wielded little power but was respected for her age and keen sense of self preservation.

Mali’s passing comes with an unusual story — unlike anything we’ve ever experienced.

On the day she died, everything seemed normal. Mali took meds for high blood pressure but otherwise she was healthy — eating, hydrating, purring, and getting around admirably for an old lady almost 100 in human years.

Mojo, our goofy Aussie-Border Collie mix, was in the backyard for his morning constitutional, and was lounging near the sun room when I beckoned him to come back inside.

As I opened the door to let him in he suddenly backed up and began whimpering, making awful, painful noises I’d never heard him make before.

This is going to be a veterinary emergency I thought. I held open the security door but he wouldn’t or couldn’t come in. He lifted his paw fearfully toward the doorstep, then drew it back away crying and yelping.

He tried again — halfway through the doorstep but once more withdrew in pain. I thought he’d injured his paw. I called for Michael, who stretched Mojo out on the patio and inspected him from nose to tail, looking for a wound or something broken.

He examined his paws, squeezing each one gently. Nothing. He adjusted the door so that it’d stay open, and tried to coax him in with promises of dog cookies and Charlie Bears. To up the ante I retrieved a hot dog from the fridge and wagged it in the air in front of him.

The whimpering moans continued.

It was as if he was afraid of the sun room, or something in it.

But this area was one of his favorite spots. It housed his comfy bachelor crate and doggie bed, which were positioned so he could keep an eye on squirrels and other backyard intruders. His food dish was there, as well as the communal water bowls used by Mojo and the two cats.

Michael fetched his leash, and with a cookie in hand stood in the den calling for him. To get the cookie and to go for a walk — two of his most favorite things in the world — he’d have to cross the door, pass through the sun room and meet Michael in the den.

After a bit he reluctantly did so. As Michael slipped on his sneakers and grabbed his jacket I offered Mojo a fresh beef bone as a reward.

For the first time — ever — he turned his head and snubbed the treat. About 45 minutes later they returned from their walk. Everything was fine. No crying, no moaning, nothing out of the ordinary. Mojo was back to his normal, cheerful self.

We were totally mystified by his previous behavior.

A short while later Michael called out frantically for me to bring the cat carrier downstairs.

NOW what?

I rushed downstairs with the carrier and saw Mali, collapsed on the sun room floor, on the very spot near the back door, where earlier Mojo had been afraid to cross.

Somehow, our dog intuited something tragic was about to happen. He was frightened of whatever spirit settled into that area, waiting to claim our little Mali cat.

Michael rushed her to our vet, and I stayed behind with Bernie and Mojo. Who knew what might happen next. Our vet told Michael she’d had a stroke and would not recover. Reaching down to gently caress her body he told Dr. Smith to give her the shot.

Later that afternoon Mali was planted in the Cat Garden alongside the eight others. Bernie, our three-year-old cat, is still with us, but all nine of the Little Indians who moved with us eleven years ago are gone.

Everything is now “back to normal,” but like every pet passing there’s a subtle change in the current.

There are just four of us left. Two humans, one cat, one dog.

In the game of Survivor, there is no way of knowing which one of us will be the next voted off the island.

That is, unless Mojo knows more than he is letting on.

This story is a condensed version of one originally written two years ago.

If you’d like to read another story about Mali cat, here’s one you might enjoy.

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