Remembering a calico queen, a semi-feral little ‘scamperpuss’ and the joy — and heartache — of adopting rescue animals

The day we lost our calico cat Elizabeth (pictured above at left) to an arterial blood clot, her pale ginger housemate Bryce (at right) hid under the bed. By evening, however, we were able to cajole him out to join us for kitty treats while we ate supper. For our usual ritual, in other words.

The day — was it just Tuesday? already it seems a long time ago — began normally enough. In fact, it was almost idyllic. Elizabeth spent half the morning curled up in Debi’s lap, and Bryce amused himself by pouncing on stray hair ties, which he considers more fascinating than cat toys. (Go figure.) Elizabeth and Bryce had even shared our bed that morning with a minimum of hissing and territorial jockeying. They were both rescues, adopted last December, and they were still getting used to sharing a forever home.

Then, just before noon, Elizabeth suffered what is known as a saddle thrombus, a blood clot that suddenly cuts off circulation to the legs. It’s similar to a stroke or a heart attack, and it is nearly always fatal to cats. The condition is extremely painful, and she was obviously in great distress. So Debi rushed her to the Animal Emergency Clinic on South Durkin, where they give her pain medication and diagnosed her condition.

In the meantime, Bryce disappeared. Later that afternoon, I found him under the bed.

He would hace heard Elizabeth howling in pain, and seen Debi and me rushing around as she bundled Elizabeth into a pet carrier and rushed them out the door. Who knows what goes through a cat’s mind? He must have been frightened Tuesday — he was a little fraidy-cat when he came to us — and now I think he’s grieving We all are.

So now we’re giving Bryce extra attention. He needs it. We all do.

When Bryce first came to us, I’d chirp and coo, “You’re safe now, buddy.” Like so many rescues, he’d had a rough life, and he spent his first two weeks with us hiding in a cardboard box in my closet. After a while, he warmed up. But now he’s turned skittish again. So I’m varying the message. “You’re still safe, little buddy.”

We adopted Elizabeth and Bryce from The Cats’ Pyjamas, our cat cafe in downtown Springfield. Elizabeth was a star attraction, a beautiful combination calico and tortise shell kitty, very laid back but regal. She was known as “Queen Elizabeth,” and, yes, her manner reminded me of the late Elizabetb II of the United Kingdom, friendly but restrained, elegant, royal. She also had a territorial streak and, after she’d been at home with us for a while, a mischievous streak emerged. As soon as she curled up on a sofa with Debi at the cat cafe, it was clear she was coming home with us.

With Bryce, it was a different story. In the Cats’ Pyjamas, he spent his time at the bottom of a cat tree in the visiting room, peering out with evident interest as cats and people came and went, but never leaving the relative safety of the cat tree. One day, when he was curled up on a higher level of the cat tree, he rolled over and let Debi scratch his belly. That’s when we decided he could be socialized, and we made arrangements to adopt him too.

When we got them home, Elizabeth was a pure delight. Debi wrote a lovely, flowing tribute to her, and so did the folks at Cats’ Pyjamas. So I won’t repeat what they said. But it was clear she’d had a hard life, too. Cats’ Pyjamas got her from the Animal Protective League, and APL got her from animal control.

We don’t know how long she’d been on the street, but Elizabeth had clearly been abandoned at some point in her life. (She knew to hit us up for kitty treats at the dinner table from day one, so we knew she’d lived in a home somewhere.) She walked with a pronounced limp, and X-rays suggested she’d been hit by a car while she was out on the street. And she could be territorial, especially when Bryce was acting too kittenish around royalty. I don’t want to project my own abandonment issues on a housecat, but I thought maybe there was something wary about Elizabeth, a lurking sense that if she weren’t careful she’d be out on the street again.

In the meantime, Bryce was coming out of his shell. As soon as we got him home, he bolted and hid in a pile of cardboard boxes in my closet. (My home office doubles as a storage room.) There he remained for several weeks, and we kept the office door closed for three or four months — Elizabeth had made it clear she didn’t like the idea of having another cat around, and we separated them till she started chilling out a little.

Even while he was confined to his “safe space” in my office, Bryce began to show a playful streak I hadn’t anticipated. He was picked up by animal control from what the folks at APL described as a “hoarding situation,” and apparently he was a runt who had been bullied by the other cats. He was semi-feral (to my inexpert eyes), and very, very timid. He was especially scared of me, but eventually he let me play with him at a distance — pouncing on fishing pole wands and retreiving little jingly balls I’d toss his way. It was like he was finally able to be a kitten, maybe for the first time ever! He’d scamper around the house at top speed, and I gave him an alternate name — “Scamperpuss.” Like TS Eliot, I believe cats choose their own names, and Scamperpuss seemed a good fit. We still call him Bryce, but Eliot reminds us cats have more than one name.

Soon enough he discovered my elastic hair ties (I haven’t been to a barber shop since the pandemic, and I pull my hair back in a gray ponytail that wouldn’t look out of place at a Grateful Dead reunion). He’ll pounce on them, drop them in his water dish and carry them his mouth like a new kitten — or a dead mouse. (Go figure!) After we let him out of my office and he had the run of the house, he was curious about Elizabeth. I think he wanted to make friends.

At first, she didn’t return the compliment. There’s something kittenish, almost puppylike, about him, even though he’s two to three years old, and it was like he offended her royal dignity when when he got too bumptious. Ever so slowly and hesitantly, I think, she was begining to relax and share space with him. I think as time went by she was feeling more secure. They weren’t exactly cuddle buddies, but they were making progress.

Then, suddenly, it all ended.

I think Bryce misses Elizabeth. After all, he’s been around other cats all his life (even though not always in ideal circumstances before animal control resuced him). We all miss Elizabeth. We’re all grieving.

Saturday, Aug. 23. It’s been four days now since Elizabeth left us. Bryce still spends most of his daylight hours snoozing under the bed. I miss his “Scamperpuss” phase, but I reckon he feels safe there. I’ll give him time. Besides, we’re still finding an occasional hair tie in his food dish or water bowl. And at night he hops up on the bed with us for a round of petting and snuggling. Things are getting back to normal (or what passes for normal around here), and I think Bryce in feeling safe again. I’m glad we can give him that sense of love and safety.

Several weeks ago a friend at church, with whom I share news about our pets from time to time, remarked if you want drama in your life, adopt cats. To which I would only add — if you want an extra measure of drama, adopt rescues. We knew we were taking a chance with Elizabeth. No matter how pretty she was, and how pleasant and royal her manner, we knew she was 10 years old with a bad leg. But we also knew we could give her a good home.

Somewhere I’ve heard we’re called to help the “least of these” brothers and sisters of ours, and I think that applies to animals too. Somewhere else I’ve read it’s better to give than receive, and I know it works with cats. That how it worked with Queen Elizabeth, and that’s why I’m drawn to the halt, the lame, the kitties with gray muzzles and the little scaredy-cats whenever I visit an amimal shelter.

[Uplinked Aug. 23, 2025]