My brother and I were in 3rd and 6th grades, respectively, when my parents finally gave in to my brother's cries for a cat. On Memorial Day weekend, 1998, my dad drove us to Petco for cat adoption day. My brother, the cat advocate, was gravitating toward a sweet, playful, fluffy kitten that Trey claims looked a lot like Miss Layla but seemed a lot less insane. I, however, had a thing for orange tabbies and a keenly developed inclination to always get my way, so we got Tilly.
[I wanted to post a picture of Tilly from a time when she was less massive, but alas, I couldn't find one. Probably because she's had the same enormous, irritated look about her since 1999. Here she is instead with her guilty pleasure.]
Tilly was none too pleased to be carried out of Petco that day, and she more or less balanced that chip on her shoulder for the rest of her life. She was the most cat-like cat in the history of the world: onery, sleepy, disdainful, anti-social (but NOT skittish), possessive, and loath to be carried around. (I'm not that's quite sure the type of information you're supposed to share in one of these things, but "sweet" and "loving" would simply never cut it. Note to self: never go into obit writing.) Tilly was also profoundly smarter than the average bear--she came when she was called, she learned how to sit after only one try, she talked back to people that talked to her, she followed through when she was told to "go to her spot," and she knew exactly what the "get the kitty!" command meant for her serenity.
Tilly woke up every morning at 6AM and hurled herself against my parents' bedroom door until they fed her Whiskas pouched cat food. After breakfast, she'd saunter to her bed and watch us plebs go about our business. When she and the Fergie dog were younger, they would play together in the early evenings. When the dog got too old to play, Tilly played with Layla instead. If the family gathered in the family room to watch TV, Tilly climbed on the back of the sofa or into my dad's lap to hang out with us. If anyone was eating pudding or ice cream, she begged for the leftovers. When everyone turned in for the night, Tilly would leap onto her blanket on my bed and doze.
When I adopted Layla nearly three years ago, Tilly was beside herself. She HATED the new girl, and she hated me even more for bringing her home. She spent the first six months of Layla's time with our family growling and hissing at both of us. Then she got over it and the three of us became besties, so long as Layla didn't try to sleep on my bed, too.
[
See? Besties.]
Just before spring break, Tilly started throwing up. Just after spring break, Tilly stopped eating, stopped playing with Layla, and stopped getting out of her bed. The vet tested her blood, gave her shots, prescribed appetite stimulants, ordered x-rays, and poked and prodded to no avail. He thought that perhaps she'd gone so long without eating that she'd lost interest in it, so he force fed her. On the first day he tried it, Tilly responded positively--she purred, the talked, and she even nibbled at her food on her own. On the second day, Tilly couldn't hold it down, so the only remaining option was to go in for a diagnostic peek.
The vet called my mom while Tilly was still under. Cancer, he said, everywhere. He could put her to sleep while she was out. Tilly died just after her twelfth birthday.
When we received a sympathy card from Tilly's vet over the weekend, we all got misty-eyed. We still glance at Tilly's bed from time to time and expect to see her in it. We assume that Fergie and Layla are interacting more now that they've lost their mutual friend. Her personality may have been prickly, but it's what made her fun. And behind that tough-as-nails facade, she really was a loyal cat. Tilly made me the crazy cat lady I am today. We miss her.
