A memorial pet portrait, giving tribute to Kitty

In December, our dear Kitty passed over the rainbow bridge after battling a mystery illness. I can say with complete honesty that this not-so-little cat saved us…

Lockdown. Overnight, our income and world stopped. We lived in fear - fear of sickness; fear of losing our home; fear of losing loved-ones. There were days that I couldn’t get out of bed.

And then there was Kitty.

For more than a year already, she had been roaming around the little farm where we rent a cottage. She easily scaled the fence from the bordering vineyard, and spent her time hunting, lazing in the sun and napping in Alex’s wood storage. But, whenever a human would approach, she scampered away quickly. Once, when we noticed her high up on a dry, cosy shelf in the wood storage, I reached a hand out to her, muttering soft words of encouraging, and she backed into a dark corner and hissed at me!

“That kitty will never be tamed”, I sagely told Alex. “We shouldn’t feed it and get attached!”.

About three seconds later, I shared a tin of tuna with her. Placing it outside on our coffee table where the ants wouldn’t get to it too soon, I hoped she would track down the aromatic and delicious snack. She did. We ate a lot of tuna during Lockdown. Not only because it was a cheap meal, but because of Kitty.

Back then, we still referred to her as “the kitty”. As part of my pathetic attempt not to get attached, we didn’t give her a name. Every day, we would discuss “the kitty”. “The kitty ran past earlier”; “The kitty is sitting just there behind the braai”; “The kitty didn’t even wake up when I went into the wood storage today”.

And then, one day, “The kitty is in the house!”, whispered in hushed, excited tones. The moment she noticed us, gaping at her in astonishment, she rushed back out. But, this became a regular occurrence. Each day, her exploration through our cottage progressed a little further; she became a little braver and more trusting that the two staring humanoids meant her no harm. At the same time, we were spending a lot of time outside in our little garden. Alex was reorganising his wood storage (because apparently, Spring Cleaning is a good way to stay sane!) and we were pottering about with our millions of succulents. And every day, “the kitty” kept getting closer and closer, more and more involved and inquisitive.

One day, when I was sowing some seeds in a tray on the coffee table (where her tuna was served) she ran over - right up to me, which she’d never done before! - and I accidentally stroked her back. Her reaction was MAGIC: Torn between a sensation that obviously felt new and scary, but ooooh-so-wonderful! As she wriggled to-an-fro - avoiding being touched and seeking it out at the same time - it was as if I could hear her saying, “Oooh! What. Is. THIS?! NO! But yesss - no - oooh - yes YES! Noooo - but - don’t - stop - yeeeessss!”.

From that moment - from that first touch - we were all done for. She became “Kitty”. Our Kitty.

She distracted us from the hellish uncertainty and fear. She brought light into the darkness and joy to our home. She gave us a reason to get up in the morning and fight on.

Slowly, she adopted us. Quickly, it became impossible not to love her. How can one not love something so deserving of love? Something that has never known love? Something that brings so much joy and affection without any terms or conditions?

Even though I’ve now written this detailed tale of how Kitty found us, the memories that I have of her as a feral are few and faded. They don’t seem real, compared to the vast amount of memories that I cherish of her as our happy, healthy lap cat. We could not turn a corner in our home without her following. She was a constant in everything we did. A shadow, supervisor and guardian angel.

The first signs of her illness seemed so absolutely innocent. Even after weeks of going back and forth to our wonderful vets as they tried various treatments, I still didn’t worry. She was young and healthy! And quite frankly, I had forgotten that there was ever a time that she wasn’t part of our family. Surely, such a time never existed and could not come to pass again?

I think she knew much, MUCH sooner that we did that the end was near. As the unknown thing grew inside her head, she became increasingly affectionate (I didn’t think that it was possible that such an affectionate cat could become even more affectionate!). So, even though the last few months with her was a fight for survival - a road littered with frustrating and painful failures - the time we spent with her was good.

During this time, I was contacted by a gentleman looking for a very special gift for his partner: A memorial portrait of their beloved cat, Icing. I’ve never accepted a commission for a pet portrait before (and I don’t think I’ll every take on another). But, because Kitty was so sick - and I think because by then I subconsciously knew we were losing the battle - I said yes.

I’ll write about the ins and outs of the technical creation process of Icing’s portrait another time. For now, I want to focus on how painting this handsome, blue-eyed boy really helped me through a very difficult time. Just like Kitty did during Lockdown, Icing was now a welcome distraction. Something beautiful to focus my attention on; a reason to get up in the morning. And, of course, while painting this kitty, my own Kitty was my constant companion.

When Icing’s family came to collect his portrait, I felt an instant connection with them. There is something powerfully binding in shared pain between strangers. By then, I had told them about Kitty’s illness, because I pushed our original agreed-upon deadline out to take care of her — there was no anger or argument; only understanding and compassion. The irony of the situation was… surreal.

About a week later, we finally reached the heart-wrenching realisation that we had arrived at the end of the road with Kitty…

When I imagine Kitty passing over Edna Clyne-Rekhy’s Rainbow Bridge, I like to think that there was already someone waiting to welcome her on the other side: Isabel, our dear friend and neighbour, who passed away just two weeks before. She knew and loved Kitty, and to this day I sometimes hear her cheerful greeting, “Kitty-kitty-kitty!” through the hedge that separates our cottages (even though she and her husband have not lived next door for years), and Kitty happily meowing in response...