The “White Gang” at our house lost its senior member last week when Eep, our beautiful white Siamese mix, died after an epic battle with cancer and old age.

 

It was the whiteness that brought us together a decade ago.  We have Samoyeds, the all-white sled dogs that pull the Canadian Mounties on their winter patrols in the Great White North, (though ours are more inclined to lie down in front of the air conditioner vents or the pantry doorway).  I was buying dog food in a pet store in St. Cloud one day, oblivious to the idea of adding a cat to the mix, when she caught my eye.  She stood out like a beacon, the only white cat in a room full of black, calico and ginger-colored specimens, and I had to go and see.

 

Those are sad rooms, full of small glass cages full of hopeful felines, each one rushing to the front of the cage mewing “Pick me, I’m the cat you need!”  All but one.  After giving me the once-over with her enormous yellow eyes, Eep turned her back and walked to the rear of her cage and sat down, radiating utter indifference.  Of course, I was hooked immediately.

 

Her papers carried a one-line note that may be the greatest understatement in the history of pet adoptions:  “She is not very social.”  Yes, and Mt. Everest is high, the ocean contains much water and a lit stove is hot.

 

Her adoptive name was “Penelope”, but this girl was not a Penelope.  She had the long, jackrabbit back legs of the Siamese breed, and lanky front legs to match, which gave her an NBA-style vertical leap that took many a surprised low-flying songbird from this world to the next in our yard.  And so, she became “L’Eep”, and then just “Eep”. 

 

On arrival, she immediately took over the entire household.  Any approaching curious dog was met with a high-pitched hiss, and, if that failed, with the famous Siamese fighting howl.  It sounds like metal tearing, delivered at a decibel rate that would make the Rebel Yell seem like whispering in the library.  It so terrified a visiting American Standard bulldog that he would afterwards walk out of any room he was in if she walked in, and she played it to the hilt.

 

She met her match in Kiki, Warrior Princess, however.  Kiki was also an adoptee, from the Samoyed Rescue in Wisconsin, and rooted in the conviction that: “Dogs rule, cats drool”.  It took many months of hissing and yowling before a truce was established, both still convinced of their natural superiority.  Kiki patrolled the limits of her yard each morning on her leash, with Eep walking just far enough behind so as not to give the impression that she was walking “with” us (though she would put on a turn of speed if we got too far ahead).

 

When she was homeless, before entering the shelter, Eep must have lived near a Chinese restaurant, because she was a demon for fried rice, kung pao chicken and shrimp toast.  At home, her hereditary place at the dining table was in my lap, usually arriving when the main course was finishing.  First-time dinner guests were often surprised to see a long white paw protruding onto the table in search of savories, possibly confirming their impression that their host was, indeed, some kind of space alien.

 

Those long paws also served to wake humans when it was time for breakfast.  She would stretch out between the pillows on out bed, and reach out and gently pat the side of one of our faces when she judged that we had slept enough.  The pats became harder, in my case turning into roundhouse swats before she was able to get my attention and motivate me towards the kitchen.  No alarm clock can do that.

 

Eep lost one of her beautiful eyes when a malignant tumor formed behind it.  A young veterinarian at the U. of M. explained that Eep would also need a full radiation treatment course, which was no guarantee of survival but would cost $12,000, regardless of outcome, or she would die within a month.  Without thinking, I instinctively spoke aloud a phrase from the Olde English that I still think succinctly conveyed my opinion of that idea.  That was more than two years ago, so you be the judge.

 

But last week she began a steep decline, and when she would no longer drink water last Friday, I knew it was time.  I am sadly familiar with the process at the clinic, where our other companions had accepted their endings easily, passing smoothly on to the next plane without drama.  Not Eep.  She managed one more massive fighting yowl at the last, and launched a fearsome bite, fortunately into the warm blanket she was lying on, and not somebody’s hand (been there, stitched that).

 

They’re on the hillside together now, Rue and Kiki and Pieta and Eep, the White Gang in repose.  Poor Wolf is the last of the Mohicans, and he knows it.  Because sometimes, when he looks out at the graves, he howls.

“Wait for me,” he says.