Cocotte is my favorite word in the French language. It means little hen and can be a term of endearment, like darling or sweetheart. “Oui, ma cocotte,” husbands say to their wives. It’s the name for a large cookpot to make a stew in, and the small round dishes for oeufs en cocotte—in English, shirred (or baked) eggs. The pressure cooker, invented by the French in the 17th century, is called a cocotte-minute. Une cocotte can also refer to a woman we would once have called a tart, and the cheap perfume she might wear.
When I was living alone in Paris and tired of my solitude, I got a little grey stripey cat and named her Cocotte, much to the amusement of my French friends. “You know this means chicken, right?”
Recently, after traveling a wide stretch of life with her, I had to say goodbye.
“It’s the hardest part of love,” says a wise friend. Seventeen and a half years is a long time to hold a being close to you and then have to let her go.
I met Cocotte at the Gare de Lyon train station, where she had come from l’Ardèche, in the southeast of France. I took her to my tiny studio apartment in Montmartre. When she arrived, she fit in the palm of a man’s hand. Photos of her from that time look like cartoon drawings of a baby cat, with huge eyes.
She was a city cat, but frequent trips to a friend’s country house offered wild smells and sounds to stalk. One night she escaped out the back door and disappeared into a neighboring field, tall with grain. Hysterical, I called her name into the dark for hours, certain that this little Parisienne would never find her way back over such unfamiliar terrain. But in the morning there she was on the doorstep, dusty and hungry, having had the adventure of her life.
To those who say animals are motivated purely by self-interest, I tell the story of Cocotte jumping from one counter to the other in my miniscule kitchen, unaware that I was bending down between them. Standing up, I caught her mid-leap. I felt her claws start to dig into my head, then retract, and she took an awkward fall on the ceramic tiles below. She saved my scalp, and I can only call that love.
When I moved to South Bend, Cocotte accompanied me. She had her own passport for the transatlantic flight, documenting essential vaccinations and complete with a kitty mug shot. Terrorized by jet engine noise, she was uncharacteristically subdued in the soft-sided case under the seat in front of me. As we settled into our new home, she helped me through the transition. She had always been the best antidote to my insomnia, tucked under my chin with her warm, powdery smell and soft vibration.
Always cuddly, Cocotte’s need for contact became more urgent near the end. If, in my sleep, I rolled over with my back to her, she would wake me with a faint half-meow, a quiet nighttime sound. Her arthritic hips couldn’t navigate the uneven ground of shoulder and pillows, so I would lift her gently across and we would curl up and go back to sleep.
In an essay about her dying collie, Jo Ann Beard describes her as “the face of love”. I would recall this when Cocotte looked up at me—so openly, so expectantly—with her big green eyes, beautiful even once they were clouded over with cataracts.
I loved Cocotte well, but she loved me better. Having a good animal in your life is an education in loving. I’m not talking about the ones who pee on your bed when you’re gone for too long or eat your slippers. I mean the ones who don’t hold grudges, who stand steadfastly by even during the stretches when you are too busy or distracted, too in love or in pain, to notice them much.
On one of the last nights, we stayed up late together in the guestroom bed, a favorite spot for reading and napping, and I told her our story. I lay on my back and she nestled close, her ribcage in the hollow of my underarm. Our pulses mingled so that I couldn’t tell her heartbeat from mine.
I recounted everything I could remember that might please her, matching my stories to her imagined attention span. How she liked to hide in the nest of saved plastic bags under the sink in the apartment in Paris. How as a smarty-pants kitten she determined, inch by inch, exactly where my bladder was and that sitting on it was the best way to wake me up in the morning. The time at the country house when she sat up all night by a small hole in the corner of the room, listening for a mouse. I thought of lying on my father’s chest as he read to me when I was a little girl. How comforting that deep rumble was, soothing in sound but also in sensation. I cried ugly tears.
Steeling myself for the inevitable, I looked for silver linings. We won’t have to worry about latching the basement door or leaving food on the counter. There won’t be cat hair on everything. True, I thought, but there also won’t be a cat …
On the last day, we drove through the rain to the vet’s office. Cocotte, wrapped in a blanket in my arms, complained loudly. I joined her lament, tearfully railing against this moment, the lousiest thing we had ever done together. When it was over, I kissed her head and took a deep inhale of her scent at the nape of her neck. No one tells you that this is one of the things you will miss the most.
My life has been infinitely sweeter and more amusing for having this bright creature in it. Now who will I speak French to while I cook? Hereafter, I’m just a crazy lady talking to herself, or worse, to an absent cat. Tant pis! Je t’aime, ma Cocotte.
Music: "Une Petite Cantate" by Barbara
