A Cat with Three Legs

That was no surprise. When Mitsu was rescued by the animal welfare board, her owner had moved away from her and the other cats they owned. They had been without food, and eventually without water. For how long, we don’t know—but long enough that she—or one of the other cats—had gnawed off one of her legs in desperation and hunger.

When we took in Mitsu and another cat (also with a sad background) from the Trondheim Animal Rehoming Association, she was healthy and cared for, but with one leg fewer than other cats, a painful past, and a desperate thirst for water (she didn’t have diabetes, but she had suffered from thirst).

In the beginning, Mitsu mostly lived under the sofa in the living room. We lay on the floor and talked to her in our softest voices, slipping treats to her. It didn’t take long before she blossomed. Soon, Mitsu would greet us joyfully at the door when we came home from work or studies. She loved affection and loved to play—both with us and with the other cat we had.

When I had pneumonia, she jumped up onto my bed and lay close to me through fever and exhaustion. The other cat was outside, but she kept watch. We rarely thought about the fact that she had only three legs. She limped when she walked, but when she ran, no one could tell she was missing a leg. To ensure stability and speed, she used her claws more than other cats.

One day, the neighbour who lived in the apartment below us knocked on our door. He apologised and asked, a bit embarrassed, if we might make a little less noise at night. We were quite perplexed—we were asleep ourselves. Then we realised it was the cats’ wild nighttime sprints that started as soon as we left the living room for the night. And the steps of a three-legged cat are probably heavier than those of a four-legged one. Luckily, it was only a few days before the building contractor came and explained that they had forgotten to put sound insulation in the floor between the apartments. Once it was installed, the neighbour could sleep again—even when the cats leapt across the sofa cushions in their wild games as if they were rulers of the savannah.

To this day, I never sleep with my feet sticking out from under the duvet—to the amusement of my family. But none of them have woken up with a cat hanging with its full weight from four claws planted right in the sole of their foot. That night, it might even have been me who woke the neighbour.

They were supposed to be indoor cats. We thought we lived too close to the road for anything else. But one day Mitsu fell out of the bedroom window. She had been chasing a fly and lost her balance. Frightened, she fled into the nearest patch of trees. We searched all day. Then we took the other cat outside. That’s when she came. After that day, they both spent a few hours outside each day. They had developed a taste for life on the other side of the door, and we didn’t have the heart to deny them that.

They were both spayed and ear-marked (this was before microchipping cats became common), and they always came home. Until the day one of them didn’t. Mitsu was not hit by the cars on the main road, which I had feared, but by a neighbour who always revved the engine and shot out of the parking space at high speed. Mitsu jumped out from the bushes and died instantly.

I thought she had probably been chasing a butterfly. She loved to chase butterflies through the tall grass, and I don’t think she ever felt she was missing anything at all.

Many cats die in traffic every year—chasing butterflies, shadows, or simply because they become too invisible.

It is still sad to think about her 18 years later, but more than anything, it is good. We live so long, and they so briefly. Sometimes far too briefly. Having a pet requires a lot—or a little—depending on how you view life and being a pet owner. For us, she was a year full of moments of happiness and loving devotion.

It was far too short a cat life. But in the year we had together, I know she was happy. And deeply loved. As all cats should be.