Nineteen years is a goddamn respectable run--long enough to become a member of the family in full standing. Condolences. I'm going out, and one of these several drinks will be for Malcolm. Coincidentally, I'm getting a new kitteh Friday.

You know, the fun of getting a new kitten laid over top of the loss of an old cat can ameliorate the grief. Just something to think about at some point in the future.

Ptah... the grief is there, but kitties would like ya to be happy.  Get another, I will when our next one goes..

D

Thanks fellas (no, not you, outhouse).

What makes it worse is that I'm out of town on business, and wasn't there today to say goodbye.

Some of the best cats we ever had were the scrawny strays that were adopted after they showed up in the yard and wouldn't leave. One was so skittish and fearfull that it was clear it had never been handled by a human. Took weeks to even be able to hold her. Grew into a great house cat.

Another male had exceptional nobel bearing. My girlfriends cat, he showed his displeasure at my intrusion to his territory by pooping in my shoes. Which he would single out amongest the untold dozens of pairs in my girlfriend's closet.  He had an odd relationship with the resident deer herd and could be seen bounding out over the bunch grasses and calalillys at the edge of the groomed garden to go intercept them.

One day he didn't come home and the next evening I went looking for him. I followed his worn path to the edge of the garden where he liked to make his jump into the wild beyond. And sadly right at the edge, there he was lying. His legs were stretched out for and aft. His body was lying half on its side still supported on bent bunch grasses and low rushes. It was as if he died instantly in mid leap on the threshold to his favorite path to prowl.

I was puzzled at how sudden it looked. I wouldn't think a stroke would leave him splayed out lke that in mid stride. Was he feeling distressed and slinking off to his spot for comfort or did he just pop out instantly on his way to play?

I buried him right where he lay taking care to arrainge him as I found him. And in the following years I made sure changes to the garden encouraged the local animals and pets to continue to use the path he had worn.

Last edited by Johnny_Rotten (2008-08-28 01:22:26)

Johnny,

You're a man after my own heart, you are. Thanks for the stories.

I keep a running list in my head of all the cats I've known; I still mourn the loss of the ones who have died. Sorry to hear about it, karenw, and I feel for you that you couldn't be there with him to say goodbye. But you know, that throw-rug idea is awfully practical...

My cat tail.

Some renters next door slinked out in the middle of the night, owing several months rent and leaving behind carnage that used to be furniture, and a white, long haired cat. The cat decided we were its new parents. Non human mammals aren't allowed in my house and eventually the cat, that the kids and I renamed Dog, became an adequate exterior mouser.

One cold morning when cranking the truck before work, from under the hood comes a horrible sound, reminiscent of the sound of the lasers from the tripods in the original  War of the Worlds film. From out of the engine compartment I see a white streak that heads for the woods and disappears. The engine is dead and I pop the hood to find white cat fur everywhere and see that the fan belt has jumped the pulley.  Evidently the cat made at least one full circuit. Surprisingly, three days later the somewhat less hirsute "Dog" returns.

Through the rest of fall and then the winter things went well, catwise. Come spring, though, and that year's new garden, a battle of wills began. I, willing that Dog not use my garden for his outhouse and Dog, willing that I fuck off. Neither positive nor negative reinforcement could dissuade my cat from crapping on my cucumbers. Literally.

I dispatched the cat quickly one morning, feeling pretty bad about the whole situation.  I felt a bit worse, when carrying my late cat's carcass by the tail to his resting place, with the white fur stained red, I look up to see my neighbor's daughter. Her hands covered her mouth and her expression could have been painted by Munch. She had witnessed everything. Oh well.

I feel pretty bad about the whole thing, although this happened years ago. Still, it doesn't compare to the horrible night I had to shoot my own dog. I find that difficult to talk about to this day. And the kids weren't too happy about it either.