Grandma Henke

The year 1997 was a difficult, emotional year for Lynn and  I.    It didn’t help that we had also suddenly found ourselves as empty nesters when our youngest daughter unexpectedly fell in love, got engaged and then married in a matter of three months … and moved to Seattle.    I really missed her and knowing we wouldn’t see her for the holidays didn’t help. 

As Christmas approached that year I realized how long it had been since either of us had laughed and really enjoyed ourselves.   We seemed to just go through the motions of socializing and did what needed to be done.     The only reason we decorated our house and went through the motions of preparing for Christmas was for our grandchildren.     It was that bad.      About two weeks before Christmas Lynn told me he would get me anything I wanted for Christmas.    At the time I couldn’t think of anything I wanted but the next morning I woke up thinking about kittens.    I have always loved animals and grew up on a farm where there were always kittens to play with.    The next time he asked me what I wanted, I told him I wanted a Persian kitten.  Without hesitation he agreed and we soon found a place that had Persian kittens ready to be adopted.

We went out to pick up the little female kitten we’d ordered and when I held her she just didn’t fit.    She was a beautiful kitten but she didn’t purr and she seemed a little to royal for the likings of me … looked down her flat little nose at me.    Plus, after about three minutes of holding her I was covered with white hair.   It didn’t help when she suddenly arched her back and spit at me before jumping off my lap.      

“Do you have anything else?” I asked hesitantly.    “I don’t think this kitten likes me.”    I knew she also had Siamese cats and we’d had one years before that we’d all loved.

“The only other kittens we have right now are not pure breeds.   One of my daughter’s Persian cats got outside one night and had a little romantic interlude with a Romeo.   She has five kittens,”  the lady told me, obviously expecting me to turn her down flat.

“Can I see them?” I asked.

Her daughter lived next door and as we walked up the sidewalk a little girl opened the door and suddenly we were surrounded by kittens meowing and chasing each other.    

There were four black males and one little tortoise colored female.    Everyone else  thought the males were beautiful, but I immediately fell in love with the multi colored little girl who purred the instant I picked her up and nestled into my neck  like a human baby.    She had a flat Persian face and thick, short orange, yellow, and black hair.     

“I’ll take this one,” I told her and Lynn quickly wrote out a check for $50.00 (a much cheaper purchase than he’d planned on when we started out) and soon we were driving away with my petite little frisky girl.    On the way home I came up with the perfect name:   FiFi LaRue.    Every time I was pregnant that was the name Lynn threatened to name the babies if they turned out to be girls.  

FiFi was barely six weeks old and so tiny she fit into the pocket of my sweatshirt when we stopped by Walmart on the way home to buy her a litter box, but her little motor was strong and loud.   You just have to love a kitten that purrs like that.     She turned out to be the perfect gift for both of us as we became aware of her mischievious little personality and we found ourselves laughing at her silly pranks and antics.    She attacked unexpectedly, sucked on the fold of skin between our forefingers and thumb, and followed us endlessly around the house.    She loved shoes and we often found her asleep in Ryan’s big brown leather ones.

She was fascinated by water and if we weren’t careful she would jump into the bath tub when it was full of water.     One day we were sitting at the kitchen table when she came walking towards us with her hair plastered to her body and covered in suds from the washing machine that we had filled and then turned off while we let the clothes soak.   Apparently she had climbed back out but in her haste must have lost her footing and had fallen off the washer into her litter box because she was also covered with litter.   What a sight!   Oh how I have wished I had a picture of her that day!

Gradually we began to realize the atmosphere in our home had changed to a lighter feeling and that we were laughing often … over the funny things FiFi did.             

She still loves that old pair of Ryan’s shoes.

FiFi has been a good therapist.   She’s good at keeping secrets and and seems to enjoy the same books and movies that I do.     She is still playful and likes to hide around the corners of the hall and jump out at me when she thinks she can scare me.        We have our moments … like when I have to clip her claws.   She spits at me and growls threats.   She gets in a real tiff if we pet her right after she has bathed, and I have to admit her hair balls aren’t pleasant to clean up after.  

She’s eleven years old now … older than I am if you formulate that to human years.    No wonder she is occasionally grouchy and seems to hide more from the grandchildren.    She still follows me from room to room, choosing a place where she can curl up and sleep while I do my thing.   I love my FiFi girl and hope she has many good years ahead of her.