Connie — she hated me from day one. Pets aren’t for everyone.
As a teenager, I wanted a pet to love, and one to love me back.
One out of two ain’t bad.
My childhood was full of animals: dogs, cats, budgies and fish. Each one was either buried deep in the backyard, sent to live on a farm, or flushed.
When my then fourteen-year-old brother brought home a teeny tiny kitten who had been abandoned in a warehouse, I immediately made her my bestie.
We called her Connie, after Cyclone Connie.
Cyclone Connie caused damage to a community in the north-west of Australia for a short period of time.
Our Connie caused chaos for decades.
Daily.
She hated everyone, and this made me love her even more.
She would enjoy a scratch behind the ear, a stroke on the head, maybe even a belly rub. Then — after a very short time — she would go nuts.
I’m talking teeth and claws.
She would rub up against people, invite them to touch her, then go berserk.
Cat.
Shit.
Crazy.
I learned to warn people not to touch her. If they ignored my advice, I’d quietly head for the bandages.
And She Was Judgy
One look into her eyes and you could feel the huffy sighs and long silences.
In the beginning, I would nestle with kitten Connie on my bed, yearning to bond. As long as I didn’t touch her, she would sleep there.
The contortion required to ensure her rest was not disturbed would today be hailed as yoga.
I became concerned when I started waking to find her staring at me — no expression — as if she had been there for hours, watching me breathe.
Her food and water bowls were full.
Was she hungry…
for my face?
The morning I woke to her licking my nose, I knew it was time.
Leaving Home
I was moving out. The cat was staying.
Sorry, Mum.
On moving morning, I woke panicked and out of breath — only to find Connie lying on my chest, staring at my toes, her tail flicking my nose.
She knew.
After I left, my mother tried her best to connect with the cat. Connie responded by building a fortress in the roof, from which she stared down the mice.
A win–win for everyone.
As the years passed, Connie would occasionally descend from her observation deck and sit on the couch to conduct reconnaissance — eyes closed, purring.
Mum’s friends would marvel at how peaceful she seemed.
Connie the Crazy, finally placid.
No one in the know ever sat next to her.
Nineteen Years Later
One afternoon at cocktail hour, a new neighbour approached Connie and confidently stroked her head.
Everyone in the room held their breath.
Connie didn’t flinch. She didn’t glare. She didn’t lash out.
She didn’t move at all.
When the neighbour lifted her hand, cat hair came with it.
In clumps.
Mum said,
“Oh yes, Connie died last week. I haven’t had the heart to bury her.”
Cue hurried footsteps, a slammed door, and a phone call to me.
New neighbour:
“I’m worried about your mother.”
Me:
“Aren’t we all.”
Connie reigned for nineteen years. I still dream about her.
I continue to worry about my mother.