Yes, I’ve been away, dropping in infrequently, and without much news. I should, then, write about how my move has improved things; or, about the patience, concern, and help of my roommate, Tim; or, about the yearly return of the catch-22 of heat and movement. Not today. Not now.
I want to write about the loss of a “friend,” one I had known for 15 years. Over time, he became my son’s “friend,” and everyone who met him adored him. In 1994, though, his need for a friend was so great we made him a part of lives.
We--I and the woman I came to love, would marry, and who would divorce me—decided to adopt a cat. I had a cat. She had a cat. We would have a cat.
At the Manhattan, Kansas shelter, all but one caged cat clamored for attention. This Maine Coon, with jet-black hair shot through with golden streaks, sat against the cage door looking sidelong at us. I see him, now, reminding me of the punch-line of my favorite Jewish grandmother joke, the one about the number needed to insert an incandescent lamp. “None. I’ll just sit here in the dark. You go on with your lives. You’re young. I’m old. I’ll die soon. Go. Go.”
We went and with him in our arms. “A.J.” we named him (Augustus John, the English painter, for no reason but his was the first name to come to mind). He acted as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.
Unassuming, quiet, undemanding. One night, I closed the bedroom window. The next morning, we found our new friend trapped between the window and the screen. He never complained.
We watched this Maine Coon scoop food into his paw and lift it to his mouth. He tried to eat shadows. He came for attention but never cried for it.
Changes upset him, whether it was my lover’s intense spring cleaning, or our moving preparations. We had learned he had been caught in a tuna trap. His docility indicated he had been someone’s pet and, perhaps, abandoned. Manhattan--college town—irresponsible, selfish students. Yeah, abandoned. We calmed and comforted him without hesitation.
During the divorce process (2001 to 2002), my soon-to-be ex-wife offered to find homes for the cats--hers and ours. I declined her offer. Our “friends” and our son didn’t deserve such loss.
As my struggles (“managing” my MS, living on my own, trying to finish a doctorate) worsened, I briefly considered getting rid of the cats. My son, who had recently begun talking, said something about “my cats.” No way would I disrupt this relationship. No way in hell.
The recent move to Roeland Park proved difficult for him. We were in an apartment that recently housed four people, two big dogs, two cats, and a ferret. The persistent odors I could only tolerate must have driven A.J. nuts! He often shat on the carpet. He yowled for no reason we could discern. What did he think? “Where are the dogs? What is that animal I can smell but not see?”
We moved again, to a renovated apartment--new carpets, “fresh” paint, and no animal odors. A.J. calmed, but . . . His age showed in his crooked gait, his weight loss, his dull, bodiless fur.
My son and I doted on A.J. Strokes, gentle words, and lap time. We talked about my son’s trip to Florida, and he gave voice to the possibility that A.J. might die while he is gone. Yeah.
My roommate called me at work, letting me know he’d found A.J. had died. Not a surprise. A.J. had been declining, sharply, during the past three days.
Okay, all right, he was just a cat. The pragmatic part of me knows this and will not share my sudden tears. For, I will miss him. And, now, I need to tell my son our friend is gone--without being able to hold him as he cries.
tired
sad