Freyja always licks the condensation on the outside of the glass of my cold drinks, as if she has no water elsewhere. As if the $100 CAD water fountain with a purifier wasn’t sitting wasting electricity in the next room. She’s a good cat. Always wants to be nearby. Wants to be pet. Wants to lick your hand or your nose.
On her first visit with the mobile vet, he leaned in to give her her shots and she soundly licked him on the nose as he did. He exclaimed her the “perfect specimen of a cat”, her being a perfect body weight, clear eyes, teeth; a shiny, black coat. All the indicators of a healthy cat.
She was always an adventure cat, from the very beginning. Given to me by a friend at the time, a man who had multiple personal demons, who stole her from her mother’s care one day accidently. He had seen the mother, a long haired, black cat, sneak off earlier in the day and not return. So he sat, in his delusions, waiting for her to return, keeping the babies “safe” from predators.
The mother never came back.
So Freyja and her 3 sisters came into his home and care, only a few days old. Too young to be weaned, and he dropper-fed them by hand and cleaned them up when they soiled themselves. He was gentle with them, but also loud and abrupt in his psychosis.
He offered me one, as I had wanted a playmate for my male cat, whom I had brought home from my years in West Africa. The male cat hated her. Jealous of the attention she got. This perfectly black, tiny specimen with big, yellow eyes. She had short hair, unlike her mother and sisters, but sheds like a long-hair.
She was a rambunctious kitten, always getting into everything. Chewing wires and repeatedly getting shocked. Me rubbing cayenne and other substances on my cords trying to dissuade her. Nothing worked.
My neighbour nicknamed her BK, which stood for Baby Killer, after she and the other cat snuck out hunting one night and brought back a den of live baby rabbits to my doorstep. Ten or so babies all squealing, barely born. Still without fur. We tried to return them to the den to their mother, but the African cat had her pinned by the time I found her, already dead. He was an untamable, semi-feral beast. The surviving babies went to the humane society for proper care.
The feral cat would go on walks with me at night, following along wherever I went. Down to the river. Around the blocks. Just steps or meters behind me. Staying the whole way and coming inside when I did. Freyja soon learned the game. Without teaching, she followed the semi-feral cat, who would come on commands, like a whistle or a snap. Follow closely and bring his kill.
That cat had been a factory cat at home in West Africa, when we started. Him roaming the factory and stockroom floor looking for rats, mice, and snakes, and would bring them all in a pile each day before coming up to the house with us at night. He continued this practice until one day the workers found a large, several meter long, I think python, in the factory. The cat was kept home from then on, sneaking out as much as he could.
Freyja learned these commands easily, and would always stay exactly by my side. She wanted nothing more than to be with people and lick and cuddle, so she deserved a name befitting of that personality. Freyja, the Norse goddess of love and affection who is carried along in her chariot by two black cats, animals she can shapeshift into. It seemed most fitting.
I would take her everywhere with me, which admittedly at the time, wasn’t far, my agoraphobia strong from the war trauma. Once, she came camping way out in the bush with me. No need for a leash, she walked beside me bravely. Stopping to hear, here and there. Watching. Listening.
When we arrived to the campsite, she curled in beside me near the campfire and relaxed, tired from the long hike in. She would periodically climb upon my shoulder during the hike or my pack, just to hitch a ride. At night, she crawled into the tent beside me and cuddled in next to me for warmth. Our bodies touching, her laying along my side. Her the little spoon on the inside.
One time she got stuck beneath the floorboards during a party at my apartment building, having to get cut out by my dad. Not knowing where she was but hearing her cry/meow from below the floor, or from what seemed like inside the walls. It took an hour of searching to finally realize where she was. Another couple hours for my dad to come, and another hour of trying to coax her out before we finally just cut the hole and pulled her out. The landlord less than happy.
She snuck out exploring one night and came back with one pupil bigger than other. I thought she had gotten into a fight with another animal, had scratched it on a branch. Worried, I took her to the vet the next day.
After testing, they told me she had glaucoma. That it was progressive and would get worse until she lost the eye. I was beside myself. My best friend was going blind, and worse, it would be painful. The vet gave me some drops for the eye and wished me the best, telling me to come back with any changes.
It got progressively worse. And she started howling every night. Every day. In pain. She refused the eye drops entirely, squirming out of my hands or hiding when the time came around on the top of the half wall where I couldn’t reach her. Not coming down for her favourite treats. It became untenable. She was clearly hurting.
I talked to the vet about options and they said removing the eye was the humane option. I told them to give me a few days to think about it, the decision really weighing on me. I talked to several pet owners who’s pet had lost an eye to see how they managed. Was their quality of life still good?
I made the decision later that night to remove the eye, after many tears. Her surgery was quick, and she was out in no time. Still under anesthesia and in a carrier with a cone on her head to go home. I asked them to please test the eye to see what was really going on, as the glaucoma theory was no longer fitting with some of the eye symptoms. It turned out to be iris melanosis, a type of cancer that was unlikely to spread any further. We were lucky to have removed the eye.
She came to in the car groggy, and immediately escaped from the cone within the carrier. Crying, I waited until we got home to try to fix it. Once out of the bag, she scaled the wall and tried to climb up the half wall instantly falling down on her try. I had removed her cat tree to climb, as they told me to keep her from doing any strenuous activities until a few days had passed. I caught her mid air, and held her, her squirming in my arms. I felt so helpless. I cried and cried and cried while she slept in my closet on a pile of socks for 2 days. Trying to create other beds for her, she just growled and swatted at me, so I left her alone.
She regained her old self quickly. Climbing, playing, and fake hunting still. She’s still spry at 14. Despite the eye. She’s very vocal since losing the eye, telling me every story as she does things. “Merr- ow. Burrr-ap,” she exclaims as she runs towards me. She still wants to be an adventure cat, but now merely roams the hallway of my apartment building occasionally, not enjoying her former freedom. She still tries to sneak out occasionally, semi-feral like her brother.
I suppose that’s Freyja. The world got smaller, but she certainly didn’t.
Have you ever had an animal change your life in ways you never expected? 🖤🐈⬛
If Freyja made you smile, tugged at your heart, or reminded you of an animal who changed your life, restack or share her story. 🐈⬛🖤
Someone else might need a little Freyja today.
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