Unfortunately, Elvira was not of the same sentiment. When she saw me take a step in her direction, she immediately fled under the sundeck. I had to pay my friend’s son 25 cents to crawl under the deck and chase her out. When she ran out, she ran right into my sister and me. She looked at me and then at my sister. Then she made a mad dash between us. I reached down and scooped her into my hands as she ran past. I put her inside the flap of my overalls so she could get used to my smell and drove home. And she has been part of that home for 19 years. But if I had not asked my sister to go with me that day, Elvira might not have been part of my life. And I might not have written William and Tibby Forever. On what small, seemingly inconsequential decisions do our lives rest.
I pride myself on choosing the perfect name for my cats. Some of the names come easily. When I saw my cat Tibby, who was soft and fluffy and round, I knew immediately that she should be named Tibby. But naming Elvira was an entirely different matter. I tried a few names like Muffin, Suki, Twinkle, but none worked. After about three days, of trying names for her, I was beginning to wonder if I would come up with a name.
Not to worry. I finally did come up with the perfect name. Elvira was a very witchy looking cat. She had black fur highlighted by tan and brown tortoiseshell markings. Her paw pads were black, her whiskers were black, her nose was black. Dominating her face were huge yellow eyes, which held me in thrall, bewitching me totally.
As I was brushing her off one day, with those thoughts in mind, her name came to me. I had once encountered a witch named Elvira. I’m not sure where I met her. In a book or a movie–somewhere like that. She was not a bad witch. Instead she was an enchanting one, wrapping her victims in her charms and spells and the lure of her eyes. Just like my cat. So I decided to name my cat after that witch. And so Elvira became Elvira. I think the name suits her to a “T.
Needless to say, Elvira, the indomitable, sailed right through the whole thing, from her first diagnosis to the morning a year later when she ran up a tree after a bird. I, however, was a basket case. But she is no longer the indomitable kitten she once was. She no longer prowls the creek bank or roams the fields. She no longer drives off every cat that intrudes into her territory. She is now blind and deaf. She confines herself to the three beds I have provided her, one in the living room, one in a bath cabinet, and one in my bedroom. She suffers from kidney failure, a condition not uncommon to an old cat of nineteen years.
But she is still indomitable. She can find her way to her beds, to her litter box, to her food, to her snacks. She just keeps keeping on. When she had her left leg amputated at the age of six, I was told she would probably live 2-3 years longer. But she beats the odds. She has lived 13 years longer. And she is still keeping on.