Millie

Millie was the elderly woman who took care of feral cats in our neighborhood. She wore a trenchcoat even on hot summer days, and she often had a face mask on, though I knew of no reason she'd be particularly susceptible to germs. Her body was old, but her mental and social development appeared to have stopped somewhere in the tween years. She loved to talk about politics, the neighbors, and random other evildoers - but there was no content to her rants, just vitriolic indignation at how They are screwing everything up.

By all rights, Millie should have been dead long ago. She'd wander the streets at 1 or 2 a.m., yelling at miscreants to go home. She popped up everywhere, always on guard, always protecting her territory, which was loosely defined as anywhere she wandered.

She frequently came by to ask if we'd seen a particular cat recently (they often hung out in our back yard). We knew it was Millie at the door because she'd press the doorbell multiple times. Sandy always told her, as if talking to a 6-year-old, "Millie, honey, you only need to press it once. It's just annoying when you ring it multiple times." It never stuck. There seemed to be no way for Millie to take in new information; she could only spit out one of her tapes.

Seems pretty harsh, what I'm saying. Millie was not a delightful person. Yet she was always tickled to see me when we'd meet on the street a block or two away, as if it were the most exciting coincidence that we'd both be in our own neighborhood. And both Sandy and I felt our hearts soften toward Millie six years ago, after she brought us our beautiful baby boys.

We'd been capturing ferals and having them neutered and spayed, working hard to find homes for them where they'd be safe but still have some freedom. As more construction happened on our block, it was clear the ferals would be losing their habitat, and we wanted to be responsible people and stop the feral kitten cycle. Often, I didn't find out about a new batch of kittens until they were already six months old, too old to easily socialize. I told Millie in early 2005 that she should let me know as soon as she saw kittens; I told her to bring them to me and I'd make sure they were cared for. And then I forgot I'd told her that.

Sandy with her babies, the day after they arrived.

We were well past the peak kitten season on August 27, 2005. Roo and Prudence had both died, so Longfellow was our only cat. He was restless that morning, meowing at our feet in the kitchen, and Sandy looked down and said, "Longfellow, would you like a kitten?" Careful what you wish for!

About eight hours later, the doorbell rang, and Millie handed me a cardboard box about half the size of a shoebox. Three little blue-eyed bundles of fur were tucked inside it. Well, actually, when I got the box inside and looked at it properly, I could see that one of them was trying to crawl out of the box (Belly); one was walking around in circles (Pico); and one appeared to be dead, slumped in the corner (Nada). Sandy was at a friend's house with a bunch of people at their monthly bash; I called her and told her we had kittens. "WHAT did you do?" she asked, appalled. "No, it wasn't me! Millie dropped them off." She came home early, and almost immediately had three kittens on her chest.

Of course, the good home we found for them was our own. We tried to give Nada and Pico away; there were some very nice people who wanted to take them. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't let them go, and after months of saying it would be insane to have four full-grown cats in the house, Sandy agreed to keep them. Neither of us ever regretted keeping all three.

Millie died on August 18 this year, a month after Sandy died. She was in her mid-80's. We'd never have guessed that Millie would outlive Sandy. Or Pico, or Longfellow.

Sandy playing with baby Belly

I was intrigued to see that Millie's death brought up fond memories and let me reflect on the love that we've shared with these sweet felines. Death is so personal; one person's death can be felt in so many different ways, and one person can feel others' deaths in so many different ways. Interestingly, my own memories of Millie, who was such a minor character in my life, reassure me that Sandy will be remembered far and wide.