When He Died

When he died, I lay down next to him, knowing my life would change forever but not knowing how drastically. There wasn’t a lot of room to move around in the house—stacks of magazines and newspapers were everywhere, as well as small, thin paths through the junk that led between the cluttered rooms. Dirty dishes weren’t just piled on the sink and counter, but stretched across the table, floors, on top of the stacks—my nose had stopped working effectively years before. To have a sense of smell in a place like this was a problem, not a benefit.

I don’t know what killed him. It could have been the greasy takeout food—pizzas, chow mein noodles, spicy sausages, tacos. Sometimes when I asked him for a taste, he’d drop a bit or two down onto the floor for me to eat. Or maybe that was accidental—he was messy in more ways than one. The young ones would fall all over themselves to have a taste, a lick, a bite, but they didn’t always get any when I was there and much quicker.

I was patient. I knew I’d come first and deserved pride of place, and I made sure the young ones knew it too.

So, I waited next to him as he lay there, not breathing anymore. I waited and waited, not quite sure what I was waiting for. Day turned to night turned to day turned to night. The young ones came and went—they buried into the couch for security, drank the water that was available in the sink and bowls, and yowled with hunger as they scrounged through the rotting discards in the kitchen. Still, I waited.

When the door opened, it was days later. A month had passed from when he lay down for his final rest to when the other people came. I greeted them in my usual fashion—with a soft and friendly word—and they picked me up (total indignity) and carried me away as I struggled. I don’t know what happened to all the young ones but, last I saw, the other people were ripping apart the couch to get at them; last I heard, all of the young ones survived and have found new homes by now.

At the shelter, they renamed me “Biggie.” There were more people there and plenty of food, and they shaved me from head to toe (I must admit that I had let myself go, grieving him, and forgotten the meaning of clean). A child arrived with her father and the two of them spoke gentle words over my head and left again, but soon they were back. They put me in a box and carried me to a car and drove with me to a new place.

It was a house. No stacks of papers, no narrow paths, no stinking garbage everywhere. Just three children and their adult watchers. They subjected me to the horror of a bath (my yowls could be heard by the moon), but dried me afterward in a soft towel and gave me food and brushed out my fur.

I found my best friend in that house—Leo, a furry companion with a black nose in a white face and the softest fur I could ever imagine. We curled up together every night until he disappeared one day, never to return—I missed him deeply and cried out for him. The second great loss of my life, and one I still mourn to this day.

The mother of the family brushed me every day, and she worried when I turned my nose up at my food. She brought a new friend for me when I was too sad to eat, and I learned how to love again. Tako, a mischievous cat half my size and troublesome. She likes to play, although she needs to leave my tail alone or I will swat her.

When I am sad or miss my two companions who have gone, which I do sometimes, I call out the window to the moon and see if it will answer me. Although the moon’s silence is frosty, it reminds me of those endless days when I waited by the man who did not breath, loyal and faithful for a new chapter to open in my life.

And it has. I have a family now, and they have me—and here’s where I’ll stay and live and love day after day.