It is said that even dictators can have a good side. Mussolini, who ruled Italy in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s as an evil fascist tyrant, gained support because he made the trains run on time. Our home has been run on a schedule for eight years by our own little Mussolini – a benevolent dictator. Her name is Nunney Catch, a six-pound gray and white cat. She made it clear what the agenda was from the day she entered our house. She was between five and eight years old according to the vet when she came to live with us. A special needs adoption. She came with some medical problems that were easily handled over the years with our compassionate vet, Dr. Medler.

From the very beginning, Nunney decided she wanted to go to bed in my office at night with the door closed. Promptly at 8pm, she would announce bedtime. If she was sitting on my lap, she got up, jumped to the floor, and looked at me until I got up to take her to her room, give her fresh water and a treat, turn out the light, and close the door. If the door wasn’t closed, she would come out again and repeat the process, staring at me until I followed her to her bed and then close the door. When new cats were added to the family, she still insisted on going to her room at night. She didn’t care if one or the other cats joined her as long as her door was closed. I always knew when it was 8pm because she would find me to let me know it was bedtime.

Every morning when the office door was opened, she walked to the kitchen to get her medication that Ken administered along with a treat. She waited beside the kitchen island without fail. We never had to coax her or force her to have her meds. She obviously knew they were good for her.

Nunney also insisted on eating her dinner (canned cat food) at precisely 3pm. It started out to be 4pm, but she upped the time about two years ago. If I was sitting down, she climbed up beside me, tapped me on the shoulder with one paw, and look deeply into my eyes to tell me it was dinnertime. I never had to look at the clock. She was precise. If I was not in my chair, she would find me and let me know she needed her dinner. She would then walk to the kitchen and parade around and around the kitchen island in a clockwise direction until the food was dished up and presented to her. She had access to dry cat food all day but was very insistent on her canned food in the afternoon. When I was unavailable, she gave the same directions to Ken at the appropriate time. He followed orders as well.

Nunney was a very sweet girl. She was the possessor of a loud vibrating purr. She was amenable to anyone who petted her. She liked treats and yelled at the top of her voice when she delivered a toy to us to let us know she wanted a reward for the gift. We adopted two cats after we had Nunney. She was the smallest of the three by far, but master of the house. If she wanted a toy they were playing with, they backed off, if she wanted to eat from their dish, they backed off. She had first claim on my lap and snarled and hissed if either of the others tried to usurp her.

A few weeks ago, Nunney began a new behavior. A puzzling behavior. We had a cat many years ago named Phoebe. She was a small tuxedo cat with an enormous personality that belied her dainty six-pound size. When she died, we buried her in our backyard under a slate marker. There she has been for fifteen years, long before we adopted Nunney. Nunney liked to go outside with us when we sat on the patio in the morning or afternoons. She didn’t like the rocky backyard; it was too sharp on her little paws, so she stayed on the patio. Nunney began to ask to go outside every morning as soon as she got up. She went directly to the sliding door and sat looking into the yard until we opened it. She didn’t wait for us to go outside with her. She purposefully traversed the patio; then, with delicate steps, walked across the rocks to the slate marker over Phoebe’s grave. She sat on the marker for a few minutes and would lick the slate, then turn around and walk back into the house. The ritual lasted about two minutes total. We watched this pattern quizzically for days and I video-recorded it because it was so unusual. She had not met Phoebe and certainly was not aware we buried her in that place. It had been years before we even knew Nunney, even before Nunney was born. I remarked to Ken that Nunney was telling us something.

Ten days ago, Nunney showed signs of dying. She had not been ill or injured. She stopped eating, stopped drinking, became incontinent and lethargic. Her old spark was gone. I checked her out all over and she didn’t appear to be in pain anywhere. Her systems were shutting down. It happened quickly. We kept her comfortable and near us, but she didn’t respond in her usual way. Nunney died in the middle of the night, January 4. I found her still and quiet in the morning.

We mourn our little Mussolini. Things are not the same in our household. For those who have been close to animals and experienced their short life span, you understand the grief that comes when our dearest fur babies die. Their remarkable spirits are woven into the fabric of every day. Even the feathered and scaled ones find ways into our hearts. We buried Nunney in the backyard next to Phoebe and placed a marker above her. I believe that was what she was telling us with her three-week morning ritual. I’m grateful that she did not linger and become sick. She instinctively knew she was coming to the end of her days. She communicated in her fashion to prepare us. I’m always amazed at the intuition and communication abilities of animals when we take the time to know them. We are thankful she was in our lives. She made an indelible impression.

The schedule in our home has gone to heck. The trains no longer run on time. Oliver and Sadie don’t have anyone demanding dinner on their behalf at 3pm. They haven’t figured out a timetable. Now they are fed in the afternoon – maybe early evening, but never at a precise time. I don’t have a timekeeper to remind me. It is strange albeit liberating not to have to referee at dinnertime to keep Nunney from gobbling up all their food. They eat side by side without having me watch over them. Oliver assumed the role of lap cat when I settle down in the evenings. The door is always open to my office because Nunney no longer insists on her private time. If I get up in the middle of the night, as I’m wont to do, I don’t worry about waking anyone when I go to my desk. Our house feels empty even with two cats entertaining us with their cat antics.

Nunney’s spirit does abide. I know she’s looking over us, probably rolling her eyes at the disorder of our lives. She’ll make sure things are on schedule in heaven.