In our freshman year at Carleton, Kathy Porikos and I got to know each
other because we were living in quads at opposite ends of Evans
A. Later, in NYC as transplanted Midwesterners and graduate
students, we renewed our friendship, though sporadically. Even
later, we saw each other rarely but gladly in the Big Apple. One
year Kathy was heading to London for a sabbatical and needed a home for
her old cat, Pumpernickel, who as a kitten was a lab animal she took
home in her coat pocket. By this time, he was 17 or so, and I
agreed to a 9-month “sublet” of this cat. I was then between
marriages and she had not yet married Henry Koopmans. Her 9
months abroad became 12 and Pumpernickel (aka Thumperknickers, for his
overeager pounding on any nearby sleeping body at daybreak) remained
with me. I spent many weekends outside Manhattan and could leave
him with a good supply of food and water—but usually my Sunday evening
return to the apartment was greeted by a dramatic display of upchucking
and other weirdo, clearly disapproving behavior. More trouble
than I‘d bargained for! Later, when Kathy and Henry moved to
Calgary, Alberta, this city lab cat learned to be an outdoor cat for
the first time. He lived to be over 20. I rarely see a
black cat with white paws without thinking of Kathy, who died of a
recurrence of breast cancer. As an 18-year survivor of same, I
realize how lucky I am—but also how pervasive this disease is.
We’ve lost way too many friends to it over the years.