Henrietta Hay's Column

It is a sad and difficult day when you take your four footed furry friend to the vet for the last time. And there is nothing that can make you feel any better.

It was very hard for me to say good-by to my Siamese friend, but I was comforted by the thought that when a cat lives for 19 years she must have had a pretty good life. She certainly brightened those years for me. Up until the past few months she ruled my household with an iron paw. Then old age sneaked up on her, as it does on all of us, and it was time to free her from her pain.

Fortunately, time tends to ease the sadness and you start to remember the warm and funny things. The depth of the relationship between humans and their pets is not too logical but it is a very close one. It involves unfailing loyalty, unquestioning companionship and physical contact with fur.

Tiggy was a Feminist Cat. She was born in 1973 right in the midst of those exciting activist years. Her mother belonged to one NOW member and her father to another, and I suppose you could say that she and I shared our NOW membership.

I had a struggle naming her. It had to be a good feminist name, of course, but I didn't much want to call her Gloria or Betty. I consulted Greek mythology and came up with the answer. Antigone defied King Creon and went alone into the battlefield to retrieve the body of her brother and give it proper burial. Antigone! Now that was a name befitting a feminist cat. The tiny gray, black and silver kitten with the bluest eyes I have ever seen became Antigone, Tiggy for short. She was my friend for l9 years.

From the beginning she considered herself Number One Cat. Those over whom she reined included any other cats in the household--and me. As a kitten she could leap tall buildings at a single bound. Later she became more dignified but kept her sense of humor. She would drive me completely bonkers one minute and shower me with affection the next. She tolerated other humans, but only grudgingly.

In common with all Siamese, Tiggy had a voice somewhere between a fingernail sliding down a blackboard and a foghorn, and she never hesitated to use it. The Siamese voice is the one thing I will not miss. As she got older she howled oftener and louder.

Despite her voice, or perhaps because of it since they go together, Tiggy was the most beautiful cat I have ever shared my house with. And the softest. Lillian Jackson Braun, who knows about these things, wrote that you have never felt "soft" until you have stroked a Siamese cat. I agree.

She was my constant companion for all those years. She sat on me or beside me, usually on me, and purred. There are few sounds more soothing and wonderful than a cat's purr. It told me that all is right with the world and with me. She entwined herself around my legs talking constantly when I tried to walk, especially when I was anywhere near food. When I overslept I would find a soft paw patting my cheek and bright blue eyes staring at me. When I tried to read I would find a silver head with a black mask between me and my book. She took possession of the couch and resented sharing it with anyone but me and even I had to arrange myself around her. When I ate potato chips in front of the TV I would find a rough tongue removing the salt from my hand. She was a writer's cat. When I was working on my word processor she would lie next to the keyboard to keep me company and be sure I stuck to my work. She also liked to hit the keys herself now and then but she never created much. Whatever I was doing, whenever I was home, she was always there, a beautiful loving companion.

It is said that you cannot ever own a cat. Maybe not, but you can certainly be friends with one. Tiggy was a one-person cat and I was the person. I miss her. Now each time I go out my front door I glance back at the couch and see a gray shape there sleeping. Or I think I do.