The reign of Whiskey, the king of Woodlands, has ended. The oldest, coolest, chummiest cat in our neighbourhood is dead. (Funeral arrangements to be announced pending notification of next of kin, which in his case could take years.)

Subscribe now to read the latest news in your community.

Subscribe now to read the latest news in your community.

Create an account or sign in to keep reading.

At 21 years old, Whiskey the cat had certainly lived a full life, having narrowly escaped numerous dangers typical for an adventurous outdoor cat. His daily escapades included dodging cars, clashing with other cats, confronting dogs, and facing various threats, likely consuming more than the allotted nine lives in the process.

Until his last days, Whiskey continuously flirted with danger. On warm days, he preferred to nap on the cool asphalt of our quiet street, oblivious to the risks due to his profound deafness. Another hazardous choice was his tendency to seek shelter under parked cars, which ultimately led to his tragic demise when he failed to notice a neighbor starting their vehicle.

I previously wrote about Whiskey in a 2021 article during a precarious time in his life. His owner, our longtime neighbor Chris Neill, was moving to a condo and couldn’t take Whiskey to the new, unfamiliar environment. Having spent 17 years in our neighborhood since his kitten days, Whiskey was too set in his ways to adapt to a new home. Fortunately, Chris allowed us to adopt him, and we received great support from our neighbors who helped look after him.

Whiskey had what one might call “bonus features” which included a cozy single-floor house with a central heating pad, a large litter box for his occasional indoor stays, a few toys, and a red collar with his name on it. At 17, given his adventurous nature and recent health issues like a stroke, it was clear that Whiskey was living on borrowed time.

Your weekday lunchtime roundup of curated links, news highlights, analysis and features.

By signing up you consent to receive the above newsletter from Postmedia Network Inc.

A welcome email is on its way. If you don’t see it, please check your junk folder.

The next issue of The Kingston Whig-Standard’s Noon News Roundup will soon be in your inbox.

We encountered an issue signing you up. Please try again.

Turns out he borrowed four more years’ worth.

Many cold winter mornings he sat curled on my lap or stretched out on the hearth inches from a roaring fire, oblivious to the danger. Sometimes a spark would fly out and find a furry landing spot, and that would send Whiskey dashing away to tend to his singed hide. Yet the very next morning, he’d be back at the fire, once again tempting fate from close range.

In his heyday, Whiskey cut a handsome figure in his feline formal attire: black coat and tail offset a striking white vest and matching paws; two greenish eyes looked out from a mug that was all black save for a distinguishing white streak down the nose and a spot of white beneath it. The unique twin marking resembled a crooked exclamation mark.

Whiskey spent his life in our Woodlands neighborhood, mainly outdoors, after the initial seven months. Remarkably, he had been adopted and returned to the local humane society twice, earning him the label “troublesome.” Following extensive therapy, sessions with cat psychologists, and treatments with ‘Colombian Gold’ catnip, Whiskey adapted to being a house pet with frequent outdoor privileges. He became a cherished loyal friend to the Neill family and a friendly face to all he met.

In his younger days, Whiskey was known to roam extensively, often making risky journeys across the busy Johnson and Mowat streets. However, as he grew older, he confined his adventures to our street.

On rare occasions, Whiskey ventured further afield, sometimes revisiting his old ways, particularly when it involved irking Dash, his old foe. Dash, a formidable bi-colored cat living nearby, also enjoyed the great outdoors, and the two had a longstanding rivalry.

During a recent stroll, our neighbor Peter Grills witnessed Whiskey stirring trouble. “He usually stays behind, but this time he followed me,” Peter remarked. Approaching Dash’s area, Whiskey swiftly hid in the bushes at the front of the house, hurriedly scent-marking the area while evading detection.

“Suddenly Dash came around the corner of the street,” Peter continues. “He stopped dead in his tracks when he caught a whiff of Whiskey’s odorous gifts. You could tell he wasn’t going to let the trespasser go unpunished.” Dash entered the bush, but Whiskey had vanished. “I turned around and saw Whiskey running down our street. He’d sneaked out of the bush.”

In his twenty-second spin around the sun, Whiskey had already eclipsed the century-mark equivalent in human years. But he was starting to look – and evidently to feel – his advanced age. Not long ago, I was outside filling his water dish one afternoon when I turned to see the old cat tumble down three front steps like a drunken sailor on shore leave. Maybe his mind had drifted back to an old flame. (It happens, I’m told.) Maybe he simply lost his footing, although that’s hard to do when you’re given four to work with. His eyes and reflexes remained razor-sharp, but he’d been losing weight and his coat had long since surrendered its lustrous sheen.

Despite that, he’d lost none of his charm. Or his swagger. Ditto for his regal bearing, hence his neighbourhood nickname “HRH.” Even at 100-plus, he continued to be friendly and affectionate, cozying up to anyone who greeted him during a walk on the quiet streets of his leafy enclave in Portsmouth. Whiskey held daily audiences (and free petting sessions) with employees from nearby government offices who strolled our neighbourhood during their coffee and lunch breaks. They knew him by name, knew his age, and his unofficial status as “the neighbourhood cat.” Indeed, if HRH wasn’t spotted in or around his bachelor pad for a couple of days, inevitably one of his concerned confederates would knock on our door to inquire on his health and whereabouts.

Like the great Rocky Marciano, Whiskey knew when to get out of the fight game. No one needed to tell him it was time to hang up his claws. Sometime over the last year or so, he settled into a more sedate lifestyle in and around his cathouse. He avoided fights and flare-ups, sensing perhaps that there were always faster, younger guns who were eager to make their mark by taking out an ex-champ. I suspect the latter had once had their clocks cleaned by Whiskey and from that point on were perpetually focused on revenge, especially now with their nemesis being long in the tooth.

Speaking of nemesis, Whiskey’s death marked the end of his long-standing feud with Dash.

Encounters between Whiskey and Dash were akin to watching miniature lions battle in the Serengeti. I vividly remember a fierce battle between them right outside our front door that lasted several intense minutes, which I ultimately ended by throwing a bucket of water on Dash. The events were startling to even hear with all the hissing, howling, growling, and groaning—and that was before the actual fight erupted.

Whiskey, like members of street gangs knowing better than to encroach on rival territory, once strayed too far from home and suffered the consequences. He encountered a black-and-white cat that showed no mercy, resulting in Whiskey returning home the next day with a limp, a torn ear, and a serious wound on his head.

Whiskey had a penchant for sneaking into cars; a trait that led to unexpected journeys. I remember driving to work several times only to realize Whiskey had hidden inside the car. Similarly, Chris Neill’s father, Ray, a hospital anesthetist, once found Whiskey in his car on his way to an operation, leading him to postpone the procedure to return Whiskey home safely.

S’long Whiskey. The neighborhood misses you. Even Dash is reportedly mourning the loss of his ol’ sparring partner.

Patrick Kennedy is a retired Whig-Standard reporter. He can be reached at pjckennedy35@gmail.com

Postmedia is committed to maintaining a lively but civil forum for discussion. Please keep comments relevant and respectful. Comments may take up to an hour to appear on the site. You will receive an email if there is a reply to your comment, an update to a thread you follow or if a user you follow comments. Visit our Community Guidelines for more information.