Not unlike the way cats sometimes come into your life. This one, however, came after the very premature death of the first pet I had after moving out "on my own," so to speak - a gray tabby named Colette to whom I only spoke French. It was a good exercise for a French major at Valdosta State University. But only 18 months into her life, feline leukemia claimed it.
I was crushed. I had not at that time known death so close to me.
A few months later, my then-fiancee and I talked about me getting another kitten, and we found a litter of kittens advertised in the newspaper (this was 1993, before the Internet became a place to find such things). Trekking out Bemiss Road in Valdosta, Ga., we met up with a young military couple whose cat had had a large litter of orange tabby kittens. I watched them playing together, and decided on the one who seemed the most rambunctious.
What appeared "rambunctious" while he was among the kittens manifested itself as a form of ferocity once he was home with me. His claws seemed to find my flesh most enjoyably yielding, although the books on my bookcase were of interest as well. He didn't hesitate to bite into my or my fiancee's arm, or to perch himself atop aforementioned bookcases and pounce like a furry vulture practicing his skills at rendering vermin lifeless. My fiancee dubbed my kitten - named Elliot for T.S. Eliot (yes I know it is spelled different) - "Helliot."
But over time and through the years, his wildness was tamed. He traveled with me and my first wife and our son as my career took me to Wisconsin and back, and then he stayed with me through my subsequent divorce, then a stint living single, then through three moves during the course of my turbulent second marriage. He was faced with not only my son, from birth to his current age of 12, but also the presence of two stepdaughters, two other cats, and a dog, at different times in his life's journey with me.
But this cat who started out as someone you warned houseguests to leave alone, eventually realized that I was not a bad fellow after all, and that the food was regular and the litter box cleaning mostly so, and he warmed to me, and to others, even. At the age of 10 years I heard him purr for the first time. I knew he had graduated from "badass kitty" to loving companion. It was something of a testament to my patience, I suppose, but I loved him through it all, from the first day.
In the past few years, particularly since I have been living single again, I could tell his age was starting to catch up with him. He couldn't jump atop counters and tables like before, and he seemed to lose track of me in the house, and cry despairingly. His spirit never flagged until this last week of his life, when I could tell his time was imminent.
Yesterday I came home to find him in one of his usual sleeping locations in the house, cold and lifeless. I fretted over what to do, while fighting a losing battle in staving off the emotions assailing me. A friend and family members advised me, and I wrapped Elliot in a towel, placed him in a box, and drove to my parents' house in Warner Robins. There my father and I dug a small hole in the back yard of their home.
I knelt and placed my Elliot into the hole, and as his body settled I could see just a bit of his tail protruding from the towel. I stood up, and for a moment I couldn't speak, my composure on the brink of collapse. My father said "I know he was your friend ... but they just don't live as long as we do." I paused, and shoveled dirt into the hole.
I went home and distracted myself with TV for a while before finally going to bed around midnight. I awoke to the alarm, and immediately missed the little orange fellow who usually asks for breakfast as soon as I arose each morning. But I soldiered on, and headed on in to work.
Today I found myself experiencing the almost palpable void Elliot's death has created in my life. I came home from work this evening to an empty abode, for the first time in almost two decades. I failed to realize the depth of my attachment to this little fellow whom I fondly teased as being a "grumpy old man" cat.
And the feelings I am experiencing have seemed at odds with themselves, at least at first. I have been feeling loneliness, yes; but it has brought with it the wish to remain alone, to myself. At the same time I sense a strong desire for affection, to be held, to be loved.
This troubled me much of the day, but in time I realized it was a displacement of the affection and love I felt from this cat of mine, such as when he would do something as simple as resting his head on the top of my foot as I sat on the couch, or "talking" to me as I entered the door (which I am not so naive as to mistake for anything other than a request for fresh food). Or when he would clamber up on my belly and tuck his paws under his body, almost nose to nose with me, blinking contentedly. Still, it was all part of how he related to me, and us to each other, in our 17 years together.
I know with the passage of time the sting will be dulled, and the happy memories - and there are many of them - will overshadow the recent sadness. Perhaps I will take in another pet someday, but not today, and not soon. I am happy to have known this irascible little cat, and he made an impact on my life that few others have, and I am not ashamed of that. So many place conditions on their love, but Elliot ultimately accepted mine and shared a large part of my life. For that I am grateful, and awed, and delighted ... only his loss saddens me.
Goodnight, my dear sweet friend.
