Wonderful Small

When I was in Japan, there was a car commercial for a tiny little Daihatsu hatchback. At the end, a warm-voiced announcement would proclaim “Wonderful Small!” in English. When I returned home, I noticed through the lens of time the fragile but stately gait and frame of Clive, one of our family’s cats. “Wonderful Small” became his nickname.

Eliot (left) and Clive (right). Clive has more white on him. They greatly enjoyed posing together, even if Eliot annoyed Clive often.

Clive (“Clive Allen Anderson,” or “Clive as in Barker?” – though neither Barker nor Anderson are my family’s last name) was a Humane Society gem, the kind of cat that has forever brought my family joy through their uniqueness and unpredictability. He was always on the tiny side; there is a photo somewhere of him curled up and sleeping in a ball as a kitten, the same size as the 3-inch floppy disk next to him for scale. A tabby-backed cat with a white underside, we suspect he was a Siamese build under the coloring. It was either the diamond-shaped head, or the way he could glare with such disdain at other pets in the way tabbies usually seem incapable.

My father often makes “pelt inspections,” talking to our cats about the state of their fur and how it would rank on a scale. Clive’s pelt was fabulous, and he was remarkably soft, leading Dad to tell him that the Smithsonian was very interested in archiving him for future study. Strangely, that Smithsonian call was one of the first things I thought about when my parents told me that Clive, at 12 years old, was nearing his end. He’s going to be put down later today.

Clive and Eliot cram into a tiny cat bed. They usually slept here together.

There was a brush with mortality about 2 and a half years ago, when I was re-acclimating to the US and my parents were (of course) out of town. Clive had been seeming… not himself, and Chris and I made the call to bring him into the emergency vet, which was terrifying and a heartbreak; we had just put our family dog down a few weeks prior, and I was not in any kind of shape to lose my little cuddle-friend. Fortunately, his kidneys were spotted as an issue, and he came back to us in much higher spirits, though remained on the lighter side (6-7 pounds as opposed to his usual 9-10 pounds) for the rest of his days. Injections of fluid with different frequency helped him (and were an amusing challenge for my family), and we had extra years with him that we wouldn’t have otherwise. Chris brought this up last night while I was crying my eyes out, about how my being an “excellent cat-mom” to Clive when he needed me helped both him and my family.

I don’t wan’t any links to the Rainbow Bridge poem, or other schmaltz. I’ve read them, and the honest way I take comfort in incidences like this (besides red-faced sobbing) is thinking of the joy in my life that would not have been if Clive wouldn’t have been with us. How blessed are we to have pets like these, with their love, comfort, companionship, and antics. There is very little in life that tops the company of an excellent cat.

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