It’s (presumably) hard to give someone or something the title of Greatest (blank) That Ever Lived. In reality, it is not, there is only one greatest cat to ever live and Willow was that cat.
Willow came to me in that weird time of the early-2000s when some people might meet their future ex-wives via Craigslist Missed Connections. And you might via that same weird message board get a cat from a friend of a friend, who was leaving town and needed to “not bring their cat with them”, which, in hindsight (and after meeting the cat) they just had a cat they probably adopted from a shelter and she didn’t become the lap sitting cuddle monster they thought she’d be and they felt bad about returning her.
Enter me, the sucker, lover of cats, lover of old-ass ornery cats. I agreed to take this cat, literally sight unseen. I had just gotten my first apartment and was living on my own. I assumed a cat would be a good companion. Needy enough to completely disavow me, but also needy enough to hang out occasionally.
These friends of friends dropped off a litter box, some cat food, and an ornery ass black cat named Willow. Willow, was, correctly petrified about this apartment that was hardwood and vinyl floors everywhere. I got a story from her previous owners that she was adopted from a shelter, was at least 8 years old, and according to the shelter had been abused in the past. (None of this was conveyed to me before I agreed to adopt their cat)
I mean hard to say no to a big-ass black cat sniffing around your apartment when you are a 21-year-old kid and the people giving you the cat are literally doing everything they can do to leave. So I took in Willow. They say you don’t adopt the animal, the animal adopts you.
THAT IS BULLSHIT.
This cat was a nightmare. She would somehow manage to get stuck behind a refrigerator if not daily, at least every other day. If there was any women in my apartment she would either attack them or hide in a corner (I only found out later that she was abused by a woman, it took years before Willow was okay with women, literal years, but eventually she was the sweetest cat). But, Willow was my cat, and most importantly, she was a black cat. I think that is why I bonded with her so much. Black cats are the least adopted cats for weird witchy superstitious reasons. Willow was my rock for 13 years.
Willow eventually chilled out. She really and truly grew into her life as an elder statescat. She became a cat that other people besides me could pet. She allowed people to give her cheese (my mother is probably the worst offender here, but Anna is the second worst). She moved far too many times for someone of her regalness. But she was always the most important thing1 in the world.
That cat lived through a lot of moves, two marriages, a divorce, three other cats, one baby, a couple of dogs (who she scared the shit out of), and multiple rooms/apartments/houses.
Willow was the constant I had for a very bumpy, aggressive, confusing part of my life. People who don’t have this affinity for animals might not understand, but I knew I could lay in bed and pet Willow and I’d be okay, and she’d always jump up and nuzzle me when I needed it and leave me alone when she just didn’t care because she was a fucking cat.
At some point, at all points, the pet friends we have know when it is time to go. Willow knew. She’d been losing weight for a while. I was giving her weight-gaining medicine, hiding it in ricotta I bought, specifically for her, she loved cheese. Anna was trying to help as well, I think Anna knew far earlier than I did. I was in denial. Anna texted me I should come home.
We had been planning a trip to Madison for Anna’s parents to see their grandkid again for a bit, Ragnar was about 5 months old. When Ragnar was born we had two cats, Willow and MixTape Diskerud. MixTape did not take as fondly to a new tiny human in the house. Willow, on the other hand, recognized a compatriot. Can’t really move around? Check. Fed on demand? Check. Will get picked up and moved around when a noise is made? Double check. We have pictures of Willow demonstrating to Ragnar how to raise his head. She embraced that tiny human who really couldn’t do much and therefore was okay, they were friends.
So the day before we were to head to Madison I got the call from my Anna and I came home and I lay on the kitchen floor next to my barely breathing cat. This wasn’t an anomaly as she was often like this, but this one was different.
The hardest call I’ve ever made was a very specific bang-bang play at the plate when I was umpiring a college baseball game. The second hardest call ever was to the veterinarian to let them know I needed to put my best friend down.
I am a crier, when you are a 20-year-old macho bullshit guy you never want to admit that, but I embraced that early on. I’m not sure I’ve ever cried as much as the time I got to spend with Willow before she was put down. If ever I had any concerns about crying in front of my wife2 those were obliterated by how weepy and sentimental I was about this cat. Anna knew, she cried and let me be my most exposed self.
Willow changed my life. She made me think about someone other than myself. I think that’s a pretty good argument for the greatest cat that ever lived. Willow was at least 23 years old, but she might have been 30.
This is the last picture of Willow. I’d like to think they are conveying information to each other about how to deal with me.
I literally moved her several times and every time I did, the only other thing/person/whatever in the car with me when I moved her was Willow. Like literally no other furniture or anything. She was always the last and most important thing I moved, she earned that.
I never really did, but just in case.