A FAREWELL TO IRIS
Spring 1983 -- May 4, 2001
A Tabby Cat - and so much more

She was not taking food for a day or so, passing up goodies like milk and Tuna fish, and seemed disoriented. Yesterday she was having difficulty breathing so I carried her to the vet, and he said she looks bad, and most likely would not last the weekend. I cradled her in my arms and told him to check out Blondie while I decided what to do.

God chose to help me decide, and took her while she was in my arms. She just quietly stopped breathing. The vet didn't have to do a thing, and I figure she was exactly where she ought to have been. Where she would have wanted to be. I am certain she knew that her time had come. She was wise that way.

I used to imagine that she had a previous incarnation before she came to live with us at The Black Sheep. My intuition told me she had been a poor peasant woman with a large family in the Ukraine, and they were all killed by Stalin. Of course I was only guessing, but you had only to look at her face to see. She had a strong serenity that must have grown from having suffered and having to fight for her space in her world.

You had to see her just swaggering through the dining room, owning every bit of her territory. Unflappable. It made one think of Mae West.

She protected us against mice and did part time work as Official Greeter of Guests. Whenever the health Department inspector showed up a well practiced ‘fire drill’ maneuver took place where she was unceremoniously scooped up -- never losing her dignity and making it all the funnier -- and hidden away till the dreaded examination was over. She never seemed to be unhappy at the life she lived in the empty restaurant at night, but her loud meow when you arrived in the morning told you she was glad to see you, and it was high time she got something to eat. Always dirty and covered with greasy grime, but to her it was home and it was hers. You could pick her up in your arms and hold her, purring, but try to walk thru the door to the outside and she'd fight you to make you let her go.

When she first arrived at The Sheep the waiters knew she’d be back, that she was in heat and jokingly warned me we’d have a new cat before long and most likely kittens too. I remember it was Tom Schumacher who named her, ‘Iris Osiris; but it was ‘Iris’ for everyday. Tom left The Sheep and did some time of the rest of his life as a truck driver, with an 18 wheel rig he’d bought. It was the virus that had finally gotten him, as it had so many of our little restaurant family.

Funny, I never truly took her as my own, even when I sat up all night and watched her give birth to four kittens, one of which was still-born, and while she tried vainly to revive it using her feline version of CPR. She instinctively knew how to protect those she loved and gave affection to friend and stranger alike. She always belonged to the restaurant family and to the customers. I guess she did come to recognize me as the constant human in her life.

The time she lived with all of us represents a cross section of the restaurant’s history as well. All the people, events, holidays, and so many who are gone now, scattered to the four winds, and who at one time or another loved her.
I know she was there every day to greet Jim, our pastry chef, and Gregory, our porter when they arrived early in the morning, demanding some special treat which was usually a saucer of milk or a raw scallop. She had at one point grown to over 17 pounds!

The local vet, a pompous and negligent man, more capitalist than doctor, told us to place her on a diet. Sold us some expensive diet food she hated and so would not eat. No other food was allowed to her so she - stubborn lady that she was - just starved herself until she got a liver disorder. (No of course he didn’t follow up or warn us.) It’s only thanks to Joe that she survived because we had to inject pureed cat food into a tube that same vet had installed into her stomach. (Yes of course he charged us for his stupid oversight.)

When the restaurant seemed to be in jeopardy, it made sense to bring her to live with me and Lulu on Washington Street, and on Fire Island. She thrived in her new homes, and her first summer at the beach was probably the best year of her life. It took her no time at all to scope out the shady spots and the sunny ones where she could bake in the late afternoons. She spent most of her daytime hours out of doors. When she was away from the ‘dinge’ her colors all came to life. In one coat of fur you'd see gray, silver, black, white, brown, tan, gold, --- more colors than you can count.

Shortly after Blondie came to live with us, that was in the fall of '98, Iris was the one who firmly taught the frightened and uncertain Lab who was the real Queen of the realm, and the dogs understood that she did hold dominion over all of us. That tiny cat had us all in line!

I recall in the late fall of 1988 when I was experiencing a deep despair, and just after the restaurant, and my life, had been stolen by the landlord’s wife, Iris had sensed my depression and came over to me to make me feel better. It was so powerful that I even wrote about it. I described myself in the third person, that’s how far away from my own emotions I was:

"A gray shadow moved -- Iris, ancient feline relic, restaurant mascot for 15 years, he's seen her through birth of kittens, cancer, surgery, near death, countless customers, and employees, and finally like a retired old war comrade, she had settled in with him at his loft, sharing status with the dogs, vying for his attention, She moved gracefully across the dog-soiled couch, along the arm of it, then a short leap to the wide arm of the leather chair, and making the softest of greeting noises, she eased onto his lap, pushing her cool damp nose into his face. He was glad she had come over when she did, it was almost as a response from some force to cheer him. They each had near death experiences, he understood that, and now he worried that she appeared frail and lean, and thought about cancer. It would mean another visit to the overpriced vet. She had nearly died a year and a half ago, but had spent a wonder-filled summer at the beach house. It had rejuvenated the man, the cat, and his old dog.

The summer was a healing time for all of them. The cat, never having been outdoors before -- she'd spent most of her life in the dirty, greasy restaurant basement, alone at night, it was all she knew. He had brought her home to live with him and the dog, and she held dominion over their home, and when the roommate stole some family heirlooms, jewels owned by his dead aunt, there was no one to take care of her, so out to Fire Island she went. He agonized about bringing her to a strange wild place, animals everywhere, and birds, all sorts of wildlife. It took her an hour to take over the entire quarter acre, house, trees, all of it. She found shady spots and sunny ones, depending on what was needed, the old dog who had been there since childhood, shared it with her, finding the shade pleasant. They were at summer camp, but it was November now, and the summer was over, and winter and it's closing in was upon him.

The cat had lived its life at the restaurant, begging food scraps from well meaning guests, she had been overweight, over 18 pounds at one time, and still begging food from tables. She had learned to yowl, sit on the floor, she had a knack of knowing which guests were eating scallops, her favorite food. Of course she bulged, but now she was thin again. Perhaps too thin, he wondered as he softly stroked her. He took such inexpressible comfort from the presence and closeness of the three animals, he didn't want to disturb the cat, she had a tranquilizing effect on him.

She moved on her own, walking across the chair again, and pushed her face first into his, drawing her whiskers against his beard, then crawling against his body, pushing her head deeply into his armpit. That was odd, he thought, deeply moved. A new one for the book. Still it was one of the most intimate gestures that cat had ever made to him"


That showed how sensitive she was to my emotions, and how in her way she was trying to console me. All of my animals have been gifts from a generous God. They take me at face value, never judge, nor ridicule. Never told a lie, nor cheated, nor left me for someone else.

Right now she’s laying ‘in state’ on the black leather recliner in the living room. She’s curled up as in sleep. I hadn’t the heart to wrap her up, and cover her just yet. I wanted to have a few more chances to appreciate the way she looks.

Tonight I will bring her to the island and lay her to rest near Lulu and Nihiz. There’s a place for her underneath a Holly tree, overlooking the bay. It’s right near Lulu. The tree is weather beaten, and fights for its existence, arching against the relentless North Wind coming off of the water. On second thought I think she’d prefer a more peaceful shady spot, like next to the boxwoods I took from the restaurant and transplanted to my back yard. There is dappled sunlight there and the spot will have Boston Ivy growing there. Either way, it’s just her bones that are there, and that beautiful coat of fur. I won’t allow any of them to be disturbed in my lifetime, She’s always in my heart,