Perhaps it’s not a surprise that she was such a screwball. For starters, she came from some truly questionable stock. Descending from a berserk pack of mousers that patrolled our barn, Earl was plucked from rural obscurity to be house cat for three university girls revelling in their newfound adult independence. 

We named her before we knew she was a girl–we confirmed THAT after we noticed her belly growing from a surprise pregnancy–and like the budding wordsmiths we were, made her full title quite the mouthful. Earl Grey of Gloucester, it began, because we liked tea and drama. The name continued: He Who Must Not Be Named, Voldemort. This last word was always spoken with demonic inflection, and always followed by a round of giggles. All told, her full given name was eleven words long. We mostly just called her Earl. 

As a kitten, she was a delight. A wacko from the outset, she fit in with our crew of kooks. Britt would wait to startle her around corners. Erin would chase her from her room. She slept with me every night, first at my insistence and later at hers. On a holiday break back at the farm, a big lunk of a cat named Noodle impregnated her in the night (we heard the yowl) and she birthed five kittens that chased her through the apartment begging for milk. We were astonished that so many creatures had come out of such a tiny cat, and when they fed you could barely see her beneath their wriggling lil puddle of bodies. When they were old enough, we gave the kittens away and by all accounts, her progeny were as crazy as she was.

For the first summer after university I lived and worked in Saint John, New Brunswick. She came with, grumpily enduring the 11 hour drive and peeing in a makeshift litter box at my feet. I watched with anxiety as she scratched at my landlord’s carpet, and cried into her fur as I got over a break-up. 

I worked long hours in the newsroom that summer, but she never complained. She always seemed to be the perfect level of affectionate. Meowing seldom, and quietly. Purring at any provocation. Happy to be sitting near you, but not pushy for constant attention. Full of playful character and kitten-like zest, but resilient in the face of occasional weekends to herself. She scratched, but not indiscriminately. She’d find a spot, usually a single piece of furniture, and over time tear it to shreds. The only time she was truly disruptive was when a door blocked her from the people she loved. This she could not abide. When Ben and I moved in together in Ottawa, he thought the bedroom door would remain closed at night with Earl on the other side. After three consecutive loud headbangs, he finally relented and she retook her rightful spot sleeping directly on my chest, nose to nose.

She never did get spayed. At first because my student budget thought the price was exorbitant for a creature that never ever went outside (let’s not remember that she got pregnant anyway). Then because I didn’t have a car and she hated leaving the house. Eventually, she was old enough that when I enquired I was told that the $300 spay would have to be paired with a $400 full physical. I was told that at her age it might not be worth it.

It was easy to forget her age. When we found her in her normal napping spot in the linen closet, peacefully gone, she was about 13 and a half years old. Within the average age of death for a house cat. But we were shocked that there’d been no warning. No physical decline, no decrease in her playful scampering. Yes she sometimes complained if you picked up too quickly in her later years but because she never grew very big she always just seemed like an eternal kitten. 

When I followed Ben to Alberta, I was unsure whether to bring her. Ben’s apartment didn’t allow pets, and we’d need to sneak her in and figure out a long-term solution. But Ben had grown attached after living with her in Ottawa–she spent many hours perched on his calm lap–and he insisted. I’m so grateful for that. We got four more years with her, two of which were pandemic, work-from-home years. After we got Poe she moved from active hatred, to grudging acceptance, to a sort of sisterly playfulness punctuated by pranks and eating from the dog dish. If Poe was getting too many pets, you can bet that Earl would sidle up and flop over to receive her fair share of belly shoofs. We joked that she had better recall, often coming more reliably when called than Poe did.

The weekend we found her was long and teary. I cried more the first day, Ben cried more the next. The grief has lost its sharpness, but I still remember her in flashes. When we go to bed and I repress the urge to scritch the bed covers. When I open the kitchen door to let out some oven smoke, and realise that I can simply leave it open without worrying that Earl will sneak outside. When I sit next to the table where her food dish once was.

I knew that she’d eventually go, but considering she was with me for almost my entire adult life thus far, it still feels like the end of an era. She was a really good cat, a wonderful companion, and our lil family loved her.