Oliver: Mother’s beloved pet causes angst while alive, even more after death

I met my mother’s cat Cinders when I traveled to Georgia in the mid-1990s.

As the name suggests, she was a black cat, only with pretty flecks of orange throughout her fur.

I suppose I would have been enamored with her if I hadn’t had to share a bedroom with her during my stay. Or should I say, if I hadn’t invaded her space while visiting my mother for a week.

Each night, she would keep me awake by wanting to be petted. When I would oblige her, she would start kneading on any exposed part of my person. When I tried to escape by hiding under the covers, she’d find my air hole and weasel her way under the covers with me, where more kneading would commence.

Did I mention that she had all of her claws and that my mother clearly was not keeping those claws trimmed? Ouch and ouch.

When I told my mother that her cat was keeping me up all night, my mother just reminded me that I was in Cinders’ room and that she wasn’t about to keep her pet out of her favorite place.

It was a long trip for me, and my feelings toward this aggressively friendly cat were a bit mixed.

My mother, however, absolutely adored this cat. Every time I’d call my mother to see how she was doing, I’d get to hear the latest news about Cinders.

When Cinders inevitably got old and eventually died, I could not have been more surprised at how my mother decided to cope with her beloved pet’s loss.

I mean, I realize that my mother lived in the South, but she remained a Yankee through and through.

However, when my mother called to tell me that she had taken Cinders to a taxidermist, I was more than a little perplexed. “Mom, you did what?” I remember saying.

Then again, I did grow up with a stuffed owl in my childhood home. I never did get the backstory on where it came from. I also know now that it’s frowned on by the authorities, but I was a kid and I honestly have no idea what became of it.

Of course, there aren’t any laws against having your beloved pet cat stuffed. Apparently.

Thanks to the taxidermist, Cinders has been preserved in a curled-up, sleeping pose. She even is resting in a basket. She looks … peaceful. I suppose that’s what my mother was going for.

I also believe my mother found some comfort from having Cinders perched near the fireplace in her home.

When it was time to move my mother back to Illinois to live in the Oliver homestead, I did my best to suggest that Cinders wasn’t exactly welcome. The whole taxidermy concept creeps me out, which probably comes from the fact that the owl from my childhood had eyes that followed me around. That Cinders’ eyes are closed helps a tiny bit, but not much.

I wasn’t adamant, mostly because it was a lot to ask my mother to leave her own home, leave her friends and come to live with me. If it made my mother happy, well, I’d try my best to deal with it.

I found a nice place in my mother’s room for Cinders to occupy so that Mom could see her but where I could not. This seemed to be an acceptable compromise for a while.

Unfortunately, my mother’s dementia caused her mind to play lots of tricks on her. Many of her possessions had to be hidden from view so they wouldn’t fall victim to the “little people” that only she saw.

Imagine my surprise and horror when my mother started to believe that her beloved Cinders was trying to hurt her. I quickly put Cinders in a closet in the hopes that Mom might someday ask about her and she could be returned to her place of honor.

She never did. And when my mother died in 2018, I inherited Cinders.

As I did when I first met Cinders, I still have mixed feelings. This was my mother’s beloved pet cat, after all.

Maybe that’s why she’s still in that closet.

• Joan Oliver is the former Northwest Herald assistant news editor. She has been associated with the Northwest Herald since 1990. She can be reached at jolivercolumn@gmail.com.