The Cat

The Cat died at age twelve, 25 years ago. It would have been 37 now poor thing. It seems like yesterday it was killing its share of mice and birds along the broad river bed. We think about it every day. An old lady in the neighborhood just died last week. She was 95 or thereabouts. I can't imagine what that might be in cat years. Her passing brought back memories of our cat. They came flooding back like it was yesterday all over. We never did figure out the gender of our feline friend. It would not be appropriate to prob into such delicate matters with a dumb animal. The cause of death was never determined either. We found it breathing heavily one morning on the porch, struggling to take a breath and wheezing heavily. By noon time it had passed. A week before its death the doctor gave it an extended check up. He said it would not be long for this world. We had to prepare ourselves for the worst. It was way overweight and sluggish for months before the sad event but when the time finally came, we were shocked, beside ourselves in grief.

There was never a need to name it. English was not a first or second language with our only pet. It only spoke cat so we called it cat. It answered to pst pst and the clapping of our hands to get its attention. It would look up at us with a smug ugly look and walk away, tail in the air in defiant indignation, realizing instinctively that it had the upper hand in our relation. People do not own cats. Cats own people.

The funeral was elaborate. Cat fit nicely, snug not tight, almost too perfectly into a shoe box, like it was crafted precisely for the occasion. A giant marble tombstone was created and erected in its honor. Only the best would do for kitty. No one ever saw the shoe box so people could not think of us as being cheap. We could not bear to have a viewing. It was all just too much for that. The headstone read a simple epitaph;

“Here lies the Cat

It lived a life of leisure

Now it is gone

And that is that

No cat no more”

We had over one thousand personal friends attend the funeral. They came in limousines, cars and trucks, mostly four door sedans painted black for the event. We think or suspect they were there for the food. No one really knew cat the way we did. We could never bring ourselves to have another pet. We have spent many sleepless nights over these many years thinking about cat, thinking about what might have been, thinking about what we could have done to prevent this terrible tragedy. Life must go on.

Pope Francis says that dogs and cats can go to heaven when they die. I find that idea perplexing and hard to believe because they don't have souls. Everybody knows that. I guess it might have something to do with the fact that such animals can not commit crimes or commit sins for that matter. It must be their charm and innocence that gives them free passage to the afterlife delights. Maybe the pope is right. We still miss the cat. I guess that's alright too.

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