Cat Musings — Then There Were Four

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Dynamics in a cat clowder are not unlike a clique in high school. There are those who take charge, steering the group according to their own interests; others who act as go-betweens; and still others who hide from it all—hoping it will go away, yet still wanting to belong. That is how it was in my home for the past two years, from the time I took in a one-eyed Maine Coon I named Sadie.

I have written before about her take-charge personality, which intimidated my former alpha male, Samson. André, though just as large as Sadie, seemed unruffled—or so I thought—as long as his meals were served on time. He barely took notice of her. Josephine and Eli avoided her, just as Samson did. They shrank into the background unless she was asleep or out of sight.

I could sense the undercurrents of change—especially at bedtime, when Samson would cautiously hop onto the bed, head low, scanning the room to see whether Sadie had claimed his usual place beneath my arm. But I did not fully understand the depth of the fear she caused until a few weeks after she was gone.

The anxiety in the house showed itself in ways that were impossible to ignore. Two of my males, Samson and André, began spraying—everywhere, sometimes right in front of me. Nearly every day I found myself scrubbing doors and walls, stripping curtains for the wash, trading out rugs. It was exhausting. It was also a message. They were unhappy. I simply did not want to admit it.

Sadie marked her presence, too—laundry baskets, folded towels on the counter, anything soft and within reach. It is not pleasant to write, and it was not pleasant to live with. My house is not always perfectly tidy, but I try to keep it clean. This was something else entirely.

I told myself, for a long time, that everyone would adjust—that time would smooth the edges and things would settle back into some new normal. But I was fooling myself. As much as I loved Miss Sadie, I knew I needed to find her a different home. She was not living her best life with me. My affection was spread thin among four other cats. Sadie needed to be the queen—the center of attention, the sole occupant of a warm lap. That was what she wanted. That was what she deserved.

There must have been some measure of divine kindness in what happened next. God knows how tender my heart is toward animals, and I believe He cares for them too. The second inquiry I received on a Facebook rehoming page turned out to be the perfect fit. Her name was Ellen. She was a widow, like me, living alone, and she had once shared her life with a Maine Coon for eighteen years. She had often thought of another cat, she said, but her heart had not been ready—until she saw Sadie.

We arranged to meet. She wanted to see Sadie, and I wanted to see her.

“Does she like to sleep with you?” Ellen asked.

“Oh yes,” I said. “As close as she can get.”

When Ellen left with Sadie, the weight of what I had done settled over me, and the tears came. It was hard not to feel as though I had failed her. But beneath the grief was a quiet knowing that this was the right thing.

In the weeks that followed, I checked in with Ellen. Each message she sent back reassured me. She loved Sadie. Sadie loved her. Slowly, the comfort of that truth eased the guilt from my heart.

And then there was the change at home.

It took a little while for the others to realize Sadie was truly gone. The restoration felt slow at first, but looking back, it was gentler—and quicker—than I expected.

Samson was the first to change. He once again curls into my lap on the sofa, tipping his head back to gaze at me while I stroke his sleek black fur. He hops onto the bathroom vanity and calls for me to turn on a thin stream of water, plunges his head beneath it to drink, then climbs onto me to knead while I dry the top of his head.

Josephine has relaxed, too, returning to her quirky, self-possessed ways. She no longer yields her place without protest. When Samson nudges her aside, she swats him without hesitation. She climbs onto my chest, her face close to mine, purring loudly as I stroke her soft orange coat.

But the most remarkable transformation has been Eli. My smallest, most timid cat—once so skittish he avoided nearly all human touch—now sleeps beside me at night. He rolls onto his back, exposing his belly, purring like a freight train as I rub it. He still struggles with allergies—and perhaps some anxious habits—but he no longer scratches himself raw. The fur has grown back. The fear has eased. He is, for the most part, a normal, happy cat.

My only ongoing concern is André, who was recently diagnosed with feline diabetes and now receives two small insulin injections each day. Considering it once took two people to give him a pill, I worried this would be impossible on my own. But he has surprised me again. He accepts the injections calmly—almost as if he enjoys the extra attention.

Life is quieter now. There are fewer bowls to wash, less food and litter to buy, no more spraying to clean. The house feels settled again. And I am able, once more, to rest in the gentle companionship of these small creatures who choose me each day, and who offer—each in their own way—their distinct and marvelous gifts.

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Sometimes love means holding close, and sometimes it means letting go. Either way, it asks us to choose what brings the most peace—for them, and for us.