I was watching my cat, whose name is Cat, just Cat. I thought I got the idea to name him Cat because he was always taking off in the beginning- 2-3 days at a time and we were always calling, "Cat!" out in the backyard, in the cold, in the snow, and he'd meow, his return cries louder and louder as he found his way back to us. It always felt like a miracle. Colbert was three years old when I told the long gray haired man on Sunrise Highway, that yes, I'd take the kitten. Oh jeez. I was never really a "cat person", I mean, I like cats, I like dogs, I'm an animal lover. But at that point were you to ask me if I wanted a cat per se? The answer would have been no. Then this hippy holding one kitten said he had an entire abandoned litter at home-he found them under a bush- they were maybe 7 weeks old- who could say no? Actually telling the story it's kinda amazing I didn't get clubbed and thrown into a van with no windows...but...whatever, I believed him...
"My guess? They're feral," he said, "oh, he'll be around, but don't expect him to stay too long. He'll like his freedom."
Well, that makes two of us, I'm in.
When he dropped him off in a box big enough for a microwave by my backdoor -Colbert named him Tyrannosaurus Rex. I'm not opposed to long names, but it was a lot in our mouths when we were trying to locate him. "Tyrannosaurus Rex! Come!" So, that got shortened to "T". He was always missing but around, as the man predicted. It was scary that first winter trying to find him during all of the snow storms, and then I kept hearing myself say, "Where's the cat?" "Cat?" "Did anyone (feed, see, water) the cat?" I was never sure that he was going to be here. So, he became Cat. I thought it was pretty original, until I read Gone Girl, last week and one of the characters noted that Audrey Hepburn had a cat named Cat in Breakfast at Tiffany's and I thought, Oh yes! Once again I'm a total cliche;) That's where that came from. I must have known that, Cat. I have to watch that again, I can't remember what she said about her cat, but I remember I loved it. Or it could be that I loved her and anything she said.
Anyway, a good neuter later Cat became an in-our-lives-everyday cat, against all feral genes. I was watching him play with a mouse in our backyard Monday night. I sat on the swing, legs dangling, watching him paw this tiny little field mouse and I was thinking, who came up with the phrase a little game of Cat and Mouse? It sounds so evenly matched. It's definitely not a game to the mouse, the mouse was scurrying as fast as he could out of the cats reach and then trying to hide in the grass, terrified. There was Cat; waiting, finding, pouncing-over and over again. He'd paw him just enough to hurt him-keeping him alive just to keep it exciting. I knew in the morning the mouse would be garden feed. We considered briefly having him as an indoor cat, but what's a life of shitty kibble and don't scratch another sofa arm? He was meant to prowl. Feral was in his genes! So there was dear Cat, entertained, playing with this little guys life or earning his keep; living a life true to purpose. I thought I'd write a blog about it.
Then Tuesday night, I was in bed and Danny came half way up the stairs, "this guy says something happened to the cat. You wanna go or?" His face looked like, "Oh, shit." I was already putting on my clothes.
I ran out and saw four young people standing on the sidewalk a couple of houses down, I ran to them. As I got closer I saw Cat, all of his furry white body laying on its side in the grass. "Oh, no!," I screamed. "What happened?!" I got down on the ground to see Cat's face. One eye was closed, the other looked glassy- fake. I looked at the people, they had their hands in their pockets, possibly reaching for what to tell me.
"Yea, um, I saw him like running like fifteen minutes ago," he said, his hands digging deeper, gripping cotton and corduroy, "but I was just walking back and um...he was here."
"He was breathing like two minutes ago," another guy offered, he took his hands out of his pockets and quickly simulating breathing before returning them to cover.
I picked up the cat, he was warm and snuggly, I felt the weight of a thousand soothing pets press against my heart. I came to need that cat, I loved holding that cat. How many times I whispered into that fur. So much trauma in these past four years- losing a baby, having a baby, dad sick, dad dead, starting a school, closing a school, the dog, (don't even get me started on the dog.) Just every little and big thing that we all go through. It wasn't like I'd go looking for the cat, he was often the last think on my mind, but then there he'd be. He always found me. He'd look up and meow and I'd pick him up and snuggle him and rub noses, oh he was so cute and funny I'd feel better. He followed me everywhere, even into the tub. Well, he'd sit on the side of the tub. Now that's real love, cat's hate water. Danny would say, "Oh my God he's so annoying, he loves you." I'd smile and laugh. It was true. And despite my best early efforts to give him no name and keep it cool... I'd find myself baby talking to him, "Who's the prettiest Cat? Oh no, you're not pretty - you're handsome, my thweet little baby Cat. What? You're not a baby-you're a warrior! Big strong warrior Cat." I loved that white purring ball of rescued love. Oh, man. That's what pets do- they give us unconditional love and I thought I was doing him a favor...
Here I was four years later hoping he would purr. His warm body cuddled close to mine. So fucking impossible. He was comforting me even in his pain. Cat.
Danny came out, he saw me holding him close to my face, stroking his back while I looked at these poor kids for answers. One was waiting for a call back from a vet. So sweet.
"I think he's alive, he has no marks on him, he's really warm," I said, my tears desperate, my voice running. He wasn't purring.
"Blood is dripping out of his mouth,"Danny said, "it's all down your sleeve."
He was dead. I knew then that he was dead. I sobbed. No, this can't be. Not my warrior.
We buried him in the backyard. It was reasonably dignified as far as being put in a paper bag and buried under a conk shell goes...
I'm not really sure how to end this story, I'm struggling a bit. Part of me wishes we had kept him inside- but knowing how he took the head off of a bird last week and all the mice he killed and how much fun he had being who he is...he would have hated it. He was probably chasing something when he got hit. Better to die living with what you love than to live dying with what you hate. I guess. I did expect him to stay longer.
Part II- Telling the Kids - look for it next week. Another heart warmer. No, it is actually:)
"My guess? They're feral," he said, "oh, he'll be around, but don't expect him to stay too long. He'll like his freedom."
Well, that makes two of us, I'm in.
When he dropped him off in a box big enough for a microwave by my backdoor -Colbert named him Tyrannosaurus Rex. I'm not opposed to long names, but it was a lot in our mouths when we were trying to locate him. "Tyrannosaurus Rex! Come!" So, that got shortened to "T". He was always missing but around, as the man predicted. It was scary that first winter trying to find him during all of the snow storms, and then I kept hearing myself say, "Where's the cat?" "Cat?" "Did anyone (feed, see, water) the cat?" I was never sure that he was going to be here. So, he became Cat. I thought it was pretty original, until I read Gone Girl, last week and one of the characters noted that Audrey Hepburn had a cat named Cat in Breakfast at Tiffany's and I thought, Oh yes! Once again I'm a total cliche;) That's where that came from. I must have known that, Cat. I have to watch that again, I can't remember what she said about her cat, but I remember I loved it. Or it could be that I loved her and anything she said.
Anyway, a good neuter later Cat became an in-our-lives-everyday cat, against all feral genes. I was watching him play with a mouse in our backyard Monday night. I sat on the swing, legs dangling, watching him paw this tiny little field mouse and I was thinking, who came up with the phrase a little game of Cat and Mouse? It sounds so evenly matched. It's definitely not a game to the mouse, the mouse was scurrying as fast as he could out of the cats reach and then trying to hide in the grass, terrified. There was Cat; waiting, finding, pouncing-over and over again. He'd paw him just enough to hurt him-keeping him alive just to keep it exciting. I knew in the morning the mouse would be garden feed. We considered briefly having him as an indoor cat, but what's a life of shitty kibble and don't scratch another sofa arm? He was meant to prowl. Feral was in his genes! So there was dear Cat, entertained, playing with this little guys life or earning his keep; living a life true to purpose. I thought I'd write a blog about it.Then Tuesday night, I was in bed and Danny came half way up the stairs, "this guy says something happened to the cat. You wanna go or?" His face looked like, "Oh, shit." I was already putting on my clothes.
I ran out and saw four young people standing on the sidewalk a couple of houses down, I ran to them. As I got closer I saw Cat, all of his furry white body laying on its side in the grass. "Oh, no!," I screamed. "What happened?!" I got down on the ground to see Cat's face. One eye was closed, the other looked glassy- fake. I looked at the people, they had their hands in their pockets, possibly reaching for what to tell me.
"Yea, um, I saw him like running like fifteen minutes ago," he said, his hands digging deeper, gripping cotton and corduroy, "but I was just walking back and um...he was here."
"He was breathing like two minutes ago," another guy offered, he took his hands out of his pockets and quickly simulating breathing before returning them to cover.
I picked up the cat, he was warm and snuggly, I felt the weight of a thousand soothing pets press against my heart. I came to need that cat, I loved holding that cat. How many times I whispered into that fur. So much trauma in these past four years- losing a baby, having a baby, dad sick, dad dead, starting a school, closing a school, the dog, (don't even get me started on the dog.) Just every little and big thing that we all go through. It wasn't like I'd go looking for the cat, he was often the last think on my mind, but then there he'd be. He always found me. He'd look up and meow and I'd pick him up and snuggle him and rub noses, oh he was so cute and funny I'd feel better. He followed me everywhere, even into the tub. Well, he'd sit on the side of the tub. Now that's real love, cat's hate water. Danny would say, "Oh my God he's so annoying, he loves you." I'd smile and laugh. It was true. And despite my best early efforts to give him no name and keep it cool... I'd find myself baby talking to him, "Who's the prettiest Cat? Oh no, you're not pretty - you're handsome, my thweet little baby Cat. What? You're not a baby-you're a warrior! Big strong warrior Cat." I loved that white purring ball of rescued love. Oh, man. That's what pets do- they give us unconditional love and I thought I was doing him a favor...
Here I was four years later hoping he would purr. His warm body cuddled close to mine. So fucking impossible. He was comforting me even in his pain. Cat.
Danny came out, he saw me holding him close to my face, stroking his back while I looked at these poor kids for answers. One was waiting for a call back from a vet. So sweet.
"I think he's alive, he has no marks on him, he's really warm," I said, my tears desperate, my voice running. He wasn't purring.
"Blood is dripping out of his mouth,"Danny said, "it's all down your sleeve."
He was dead. I knew then that he was dead. I sobbed. No, this can't be. Not my warrior.
We buried him in the backyard. It was reasonably dignified as far as being put in a paper bag and buried under a conk shell goes...
I'm not really sure how to end this story, I'm struggling a bit. Part of me wishes we had kept him inside- but knowing how he took the head off of a bird last week and all the mice he killed and how much fun he had being who he is...he would have hated it. He was probably chasing something when he got hit. Better to die living with what you love than to live dying with what you hate. I guess. I did expect him to stay longer.
Part II- Telling the Kids - look for it next week. Another heart warmer. No, it is actually:)
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