Paquita

Adopted 17 April 1976 in Tulsa, OK – died 29 September 1991 in Tulsa

Paquita was a dainty tortoiseshell with light emerald eyes. She looked surprised or analytical at everything; and she was talkative, starting at 5:30 AM demanding her portion of canned food  …. but I’m getting ahead of myself.

In her earlier incarnation she was Flame, one of those common cat sagas that begins with being adopted into a family with young children. The novelty wears off quickly and she is ignored. She mews too much hoping for some attention, pees outside the overflowing litter box, and the paterfamilias demands that the cat be gone, soon!

I became aware of the situation because I knew the owner, whom I viscerally disliked. I will give him this: he used Adopt-A-Pet instead of dumping the cat in the country. Owner Joan Mace, however, was no animal angel, but a profiteer from animal misery and human fickleness. She charged for picking up unwanted animals with the assurance of finding homes, and she also charged adoption fees. In the interim she provided no veterinary care and, despite promises to the first owners that the animals would not be euthanized, she dispatched the sick, old, or hard to place using SleepAway. Cadavers were tossed in the garbage.

Joan answered quickly to the lure of double earning for the same cat in one day. She entered my home with the swagger of an Old-West sheriff, leaving the cat in the van until I could earn her approval. She then inspected my other pets and found them wanting; surveyed every room and deemed them less than adequate; opened every closet and drawer for reasons I didn’t understand … I put up with the CIS inspection more amused than upset, because I was going to rescue that cat if I had to knock Joan unconscious. Predictably, I was approved; and so would have Michael Vick. The monetary transaction completed, I followed her to the van to get my new cat. In another cage I saw a Siamese with her five kittens, two dogs in separate crates … Disposable living beings with no voice in the matter of their life or death. But the one-year-old tortie was now safe with me.

After making her comfortable in the guest room awaiting a better time to introduce her to the menagerie, I made a quick call: “Simpson, I’ve got the cat, you jerk!” He was my ex-husband’s boss.

Salvador and Paquita, 1984

Paquita –renamed after St. Francis of Assisi--  stayed out of the other pets’ way due to her retiring nature, but handsome Achilles (Blog bio 25 FEB 17) befriended her and stayed close sensing that she needed a friend. She never thrived despite eating well. The day that she was diagnosed of feline leukemia the vet suggested putting her down before she contaminated the rest, if she hadn’t already. And this brought about one of Gloria's most magnificent moments:

While discussing the situation with my parents, I noticed my mother brimming with anger. “What the hell do you mean 'killing Paquita'!” she exploded. “The vet is an idiot and you won’t touch this cat. I will take care of her!” (This was the same woman who wouldn't allow me to have a pet as a child, and who made daily proclamations of her dislike for animals in a house full of them.) Paquita lived another happy decade and no other cat got infected. Eventually she was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism, of which she always had the classic symptoms, and was treated. It probably helped somewhat, but her organs had been overworked and after a brief period of rapid decline, she died next to me at 1:30 AM on a Sunday. So small and unobtrusive, and still, so many years later I cannot look at a tortoiseshell cat without saying “Paquita, bonita.”