Part IV — Sir Fopling Flutter

Farewell, Flutter, my beauty, my beast, my beloved friend

I still remember standing there sobbing as I saw his soft, small, silky white body zipped into a large black bag. I thought of Rhett Butler crying by his daughter’s bedside, demanding a candle for her because she was afraid of the dark. And so I thought, here is my Flutter, who never liked darkness either, as he had always waited by the door for my return home at night and meowed whenever I put my head under the covers.

The next day was arguably worse. On any other day, I would have felt no qualms about calling my friends and crying over his loss. But that day was New Year’s Day, 2008. Who wants to hear someone blubber over a dead cat? The thought is at once pathetic yet risible. It was compounded by the fact that I had to proofread a book I was editing. As I read, I simply could not concentrate. All I wanted to do was to go through a photo album of Flutter and weep. Listen to sad, break-up songs because they captured my feelings of regret…of trying hard to hold onto him despite the increasing odds. And for the next few months, I made a ritual of lighting a candle for him every night. My poor boy didn’t like the dark, I thought as I cried myself to sleep.

Even my parents were touched by his loss. What a sweet boy, Dad said, He never bit or scratched–and he was devoted to Frances. He always seemed so sad whenever she was away.

But perhaps what heightened the grief and anguish even more was my sense of guilt. Maybe if I hadn’t insisted on moving across several states, he would still be alive. This appeared to be confirmed when another person reported a similar story: her elderly cat had also died not long after a move. Then I thought, what if he had been stressed out by my absence during those years in graduate school which in turn triggered his liver cancer as an autopsy revealed? And maybe I should have insisted that he keep his feeding tube earlier that year.

Even pleasurable events were clouded over by regret and nostalgia. I had decided to attend a cat show in February–just to see a few felines. For a split second, my instinct was to grab a few cans of new food and toys for Flutter as I did in the past–but, of course, I knew better. I also recalled how on previous occasions, I would always go home happy after a show, returning to the most beautiful cat in the world. Oh Flutter, I love you, you fabulous, fur-ocious feline. Mommy is so proud of you. And now, I had none.

Similarly, when I visited New York City in early spring, I was reminded all over of the time my mother and I had taken him just four years earlier. It didn’t seem that long ago, but it felt like an eternity too. How happy we were as we gazed into the bright city lights together. And now, he was gone.

As I look back upon my grief years later, however, I’ve also come to realize that perhaps the worst error I had made was keeping him alive much longer than I should have during those last two months. My hopes were pinned on the assumption that because he had turned around the previous year after the surgery, there might still be hope. I didn’t stop to think that an unusual fever was already a sign that something was deeply wrong. Or the fact that he had lost control of his bladder and bowels which never happened in the past either. Perhaps this is the irony of love: we make every effort to prolong a painful life because we seek to cling to the attachment at any price deemed necessary.

Not least did it occur to me that part of the sadness also derived from a sense that a good portion of my life had passed. Sixteen years and four months. Flutter was my Chicago cat, with all of my memories of that city, good and bad.

At the same time, as I joined an online forum for Persian cats, I became increasingly determined to get another shaded silver Persian. I had simply, as that famous My Fair Lady tune goes, grown accustomed to Flutter’s look, voice, and face, perhaps not unlike I did with Taffy when I lost her. I also somehow managed to convince myself that the only way I could make it up to him–as silly and irrational as it sounds–was by finding kittens from his bloodline. So every night, after teaching, I would scour the internet for cats with pedigrees that could be traced to his. I found a certain solace looking at photos of cats related to him from the beginning of the 20th century: suddenly, he seemed everywhere. And I was charmed at the names given to his ancestors at the earlier part of the century such as Rob Roy, a Sir Walter Scott hero amongst others. Waverley. Lucia di Lammermoor. Somewhere too there was a Fitzwilliam Darcy. Mozart. Beethoven. And one of my favorites, as a scholar of the French revolution era: Lady Radical. How purr-fect for a litter-ary scholar! (Yes, cat people like me love to pun!) Finally, I found a cattery where a queen, Chantilly Lace Charisse, was descended from Flutter’s father. It was appropriately enough on Mother’s Day that she gave birth to four kittens, two of which were set aside for me–because I didn’t want to make the mistake of tearing one from its siblings as I did with Flutter. Especially since they would be flown all the way from Missouri.

Over the following weeks, it was always exciting to see fresh photos of the new kittens. Only then did my sadness begin to dissipate. (Did the kittens resemble him in any way? Wait for the next installment!)

But even as I write this fifteen years later, I will forever remember Flutter as my most devoted, docile, and loving cat. The harrowing memories of his final hour and the arrival at the emergency vet’s have been slowly replaced by more pleasant ones. Because I still can’t forget how he slowly but surely warmed up to me over the first few weeks. How he followed me from room to room. How he always woke up from his nap on the dining chairs whenever I was done grading essays for the day. How I took pride showing photos of him to my friends at Oxford. How I felt sorry for him when I was packing for a conference: those big, sad eyes that looked up at me when I got ready to leave will forever haunt me. Sometimes I think of the days when he jumped on a kitchen chair to be tube-fed. Or the afternoon of that miraculous reprieve from euthanization. And sometimes, when the mood strikes me, I play “our song” — “Beauty and the Beast” — a memory of a song and love that has truly become as old as time.

Flutter, I whisper to myself, there will never be another like you, my beauty, my beast, my beloved friend. Because I know I will always cherish you as the sun continues to rise.

© Frances A. Chiu, June 20, 2023

Part I: https://readmedium.com/sir-fopling-flutter-d45360ae0326

Part II: https://readmedium.com/sir-fopling-flutter-9df70be16bef

Part III: https://readmedium.com/part-iii-sir-fopling-flutter-c152a53b08c2