Taffy, the Queen Bess Torbie

Part I — The Sweet, Sassy years

Ten long years would elapse before another kitten came into my life. And just as I remember the night we adopted Suzy at the house of Dad’s colleague, I remember the days I found and adopted Miss Taffetta — or Taffy, for short.

It was a warm, sunny mid-October day. A friend who worked at a nearby animal hospital had told me in our art class that a beautiful longhaired tortoiseshell cat had just given birth to kittens. Feeling pleased with myself that Friday afternoon because I had gotten an unexpected A on a physics test, I decided at the spur of the moment to take a bus down to the animal hospital. I got lost on the way, having to transfer twice before I arrived there.

Perhaps this sense of a hard-won reward inclined me to her. Or perhaps because she seemed like such a perky 8–10 week old kitten with her abundance of brown, black, and orangish fluff — even as she peed herself when my friend brought her to me. I was determined to have her and told Mom just as much.

On the following day, however, Mom was not as keen on Taffy when Dad and I arrived home. She complained that Taffy had jumped on her pant leg and just hung there. “She’s going to be just like that crazy Suzy. You’re taking her back tomorrow.”

Naturally, I was disappointed to hear that as I discovered how clever Taffy was that evening. This was a cat who would predict the direction in which I’d throw a toy. And she was simply adorable when she wriggled her little rear and squirrel-like tail to jump at it. I tried to tell myself at least I enjoyed a cat again — even if only for a day.

As Sunday rolled around, Mom had yet another change of heart when my aunt and cousins, stopping by to see our new kitten, cooed over her. “Yes, you can keep her,” Mom sighed, as we drove to the supermarket to buy cat food.

Over the years, my parents grew fond of her— even if Mom insisted that Taffy must stay in the basement at night. She was not about to risk a repeat of Suzy’s midnight antics: and so Dad and I obeyed Mom’s rules for the next few years as Taffy’s smoother demeanor won her over. For despite her high energy levels, Taffy was a genuinely affectionate cat as she stood up for hugs and head butted my legs while purring. Like Suzy, she would ambush too–but it was more of a mock ambush where she would leap up with her paws extended but far away so as not to hurt us. And when I went off to college, Dad would inevitably tell me over the phone that Taffy was a reminder of me, a little mischievous scamp with a bit of a temper. Years later, less diplomatic friends would tell me how that cat is “just like you, with a real streak of the bitch.”

However, my love and admiration for Taffy also resulted in an arguably fatal mistake on my part. For some reason, I thought I would mate her to another longhaired cat so they would have smart and beautiful kittens together. Alas, the opportunity never came nor was I determined enough to take action, i.e., find the proper sire to mate with her. I certainly didn’t think any of the local cats that showed up at our doorstep were worthy of Her Royal Highness, every inch a literal and figurative Queen Bess cat (torbies received this moniker since they appeared in the age of Elizabeth I — while female cats are referred to as “queens” by breeders). My friends joked that she would no more find a mate than I would with my fastidious tastes.

Most likely because I hadn’t spayed Taffy, she eventually developed breast cancer at the age of 11 years. Up until that birthday, she had flourished, never falling ill or losing her appetite. I am embarrassed to say that we never brought her back to the vet either after her first shots. There seemed to be little need since she was so active and ate heartily.

So when I was informed by the vet that she had breast cancer after she had suddenly begun to avoid her food one day, I was shocked. We were fortunate that the vet was able to spay her and remove her masses twice–once in September and again in November.

I remember feeling great joy around the Christmas holidays that year. She seemed to be making a speedy recovery while I had just moved into a new high rise building in Chicago and was about to start graduate study. Although she had softened, becoming more gentle because of the spay, she still had an indomitable personality–cattitude, for lack of a better word. We enjoyed each other’s company for the remainder of the year until the following January, I was amused to see her lying on her back under the rays of the sun which shone through the huge picture windows.

But little did I realize those halcyon days were drawing to a rapid close.

© Frances A. Chiu, June 4, 2023

This story is a continuation of my series on cat loss. See: “It’s only a cat”: Grieving the loss of a cat | by Frances A. Chiu | May, 2023 | Medium and

Losing Suzy: cat loss and childhood grief | by Frances A. Chiu | May, 2023 | Medium