Cats for York

[York]

hahaaha , might be Bruce! My fat one miauws sometimes, if it takes to long to get his food...., one of the sisters also just squeaks a lot...when she's just laying somewhere and i pet her, or when she needs some attention ....kinda like my GF.... :p

[xoxoxoBruce]

Be careful, if your cats and your girlfriend speak the same language. The cats could be reporting your activities.

[York]

they all love me too much to do that!!
besides..im the boss (cat)

[Elspode]

I enjoy this thread, and I am killing time, waiting for the work week to end, so I was thinking how much I love all my own cats...and that reminded me of the following.

Call me morbid, but I don't just write eulogies for pop culture icons...this piece is from about three years ago.

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Most of you who know me know that I am a pragmatic, analytical and cynical person at times.
Funny characteristics for someone who has become a witch, but nevertheless, I am. I am always
questioning mysterious, unexpected, inexplicable things, trying to explain them away with science
and reason, only to have them thrown back in my face. The deeper I get into my Wiccan, witchy
ways, the more quickly my questioning and doubts are returned to me in their unequivocal and
fullest measure.

Now, I sit here, a little bit frightened to even think, fearful of what the mysteries of the universe
might manifest next. You see, I found myself thinking about something yesterday, something
unpleasant, something for which there was no earthly reason for me to be thinking. Today, it has
come to pass, and it is something which has left me and my family in a state of pain and sorrow.

As I drove home from work yesterday afternoon, I suddenly caught myself writing something in
my mind. I was, completely unbidden, writing a eulogy...a eulogy for my cat, TC. There was no
reason for this whatsoever. TC was a healthy, active, 16-year-old black cat, my constant
companion, my familiar. Yesterday, I pulled up in the driveway and there she was, lying in the
leaves beneath our front windows, enjoying her life as a cat. Yesterday, she got up, walked over
to me, and answered my spoken greeting with her own, a soft meow. She followed me to the
front door, ready to be let inside and to sit at my side on the arm of my recliner. Yesterday, like
so many other days past, my beloved cat was there. Yesterday, my unbidden thoughts had simply
been that...unbidden thoughts, spurious musings, nothing mysterious or sinister.

Today, my family and I buried TC, the victim of an attack by our neighbor's chow dog which had
once again gotten loose from his backyard.

Did I say that I am now just a bit fearful to even think, to remotely ponder anything for fear that it
will come to pass? Should I mention the wave of guilt and feelings of complicity which swept
over me as I stood in the vet's office, looking at my friend's lifeless form? Need I tell you about
the accusatory little voices running through my mind, all of them saying "You made this come to
pass"? I can't recall ever feeling so dazed, so utterly smacked in the gullet by the powers that be.
I've been blindsided by the forces of nature, and I'm not sure I'm ever going to be able to look at
things in the same way. Was I precognitive? Or did I unwittingly empower something?

In the end, this isn't about me. It's about TC, the crone of our cat family, the fur child that I
found in a dumpster outside a Quik Trip sixteen years ago and named accordingly...TC - Trash
Can.

I heard a plaintive squall, a mewling cry that day as I dumped a stack of broken down cardboard
boxes into the dumpster. The sound could have only come from a kitten, and I quickly dug down
through the debris. There, in the very bottom, were two kittens scarcely bigger than my palm,
one dead, the other quite vigorously alive...scared, hungry, cold...but alive. I fished her out and
carried her into the store and found a towel and a box lid. I wrapped her up and called home. In
short order my then-wife arrived and hustled the kitten off to what was to be her lifetime home,
the house on Sycamore here in Grandview.

A quick consultation with a friend of ours much more savvy in the ways of infant felines revealed
the waif's very poor state of health. Indeed, had she lain in the waste bin much longer, she would
have certainly met the same fate as her litter mate. Consumed by fleas from end of tail to tip of
nose, she was emaciated and weak. She couldn't have been more than four weeks old, and those
four weeks must have been hard indeed. I was incredulous at the callousness of someone who
could simply throw away a helpless living creature, and I was determined to see her healthy and
happy. She required eyedropper feedings for a week or so, and a thorough flea bath and skin care
were performed.

She quickly became hale and hearty, and soon began to exhibit the feisty and scrappy nature
which was to define her life. My wife and I didn't live here on Sycamore at that time, but my
mother, sister and aunt did. My aunt quickly took a shine to the little black foundling, and she
decided that TC was hers. The name I gave her stuck despite the apparent shift in ownership, but
curiously, TC never seemed to know that she belonged to anyone except for me, and later, to
Selene. The cat never took any sort of shine to my aunt, and she merely tolerated the other family
members. No one could pick her up for the most part without being scratched to ribbons, but I
could snatch her off the floor, cradle her in the 'baby kitty' position, grab her whole head with her
nose in the palm of my hand and scratch the insides of her ears. These abuses she not only
tolerated, but actually seemed to enjoy. TC was always my cat, even though I didn't live with her
for the first five years of her life. Say what you will about imprinting, but there seemed little
doubt that this cat knew who I was somehow, that she knew who had pulled her from the trash
bin fifteen minutes before the Deffenbaugh truck showed up to dump and compress it's contents.

After my mother passed away some eleven years ago, I moved into her home, the home in which I
had grown up. My sister had moved away, and so had my aunt, but she couldn't take TC to the
apartment complex she was managing, so the cat stayed with the house. Did I say that she stayed
with the house? She owned the house! Other cats came and went, other cats came and stayed,
but TC was always the queen kitty. She broached no disrespect, tolerated no foolishness,
especially in her latter years. If she deigned to play briefly with one of our other cats, everything
in the house would stop so that we could observe the rare moment. TC, for all of her trash can
attitude, for all of her short temper, was...well, she was regal. There isn't really another word that
quite describes her any better than that.

TC always commanded the best places to sleep. When we still allowed the cats into the basement, TC would zoom to our bed,
curling up next to Selene's head, snatching a small part of her head pillow on occasion.
*I* don't even get to do that, but TC wasn't the sort of cat that you could deny any feline
pleasure. She didn't like very many people in the first place, and if you've ever been to our home,
you've probably heard the warning "Be careful, she's cranky and she bites sometimes". Yes, she
was a crab a lot of the time. She would climb up on you, sit in your lap or on your chest, purring
softly, but just try and pet her and - bam! - a quick, bloodless nip would let you know that it was
alright for you to serve as a cushy heated resting place, but you'd better keep your hands off.

There were two exceptions to this rule...Selene, and myself, but Selene had to earn her way into
TC's heart. This hard-won acceptance which our crone kitty awarded my wife has made it all the
more difficult for Selene to bear TC's passing.

My relationship with TC always made me feel special. Mostly, it was because she had always
treated me differently than any other human being, even my mother, who I always considered to
be the St. Francis of Assisi of cats. As I became more and more a witch, it was TC who taught
me what the meaning of a familiar really was. When I came home from my bypass surgery in July,
TC immediately sat at my side, then curled up in my lap, then lay upon my aching chest, passing
me her energy and giving me comfort in my fear. She was never far from my side, and almost
always could be found posed Bast-like on the left side arm of my chair.

Today, my family and I buried TC beneath the blue spruce which our coven used for Yule last
year. We buried her wrapped in the arm cover upon which she loved to lay at my side, night after
night. It was her morning routine to share breakfast with whoever happened to be in the kitchen;
she would sit patiently by her bowl and softly meow out the word "milk". I swear, you could hear
her ask specifically for milk. Accordingly, into her grave we placed a small glass of milk to
nourish her journey to the Summerland. The milk was in a glass with a picture of Sylvester and
Tweety on it, so that she didn't have to cross over alone, and so that she might go in good humor.

As I ponder what has transpired today, I must turn inward and examine my feelings. I must
carefully ponder my beliefs, my pragmatism, my cynicism. Yesterday, I caught myself
contemplating that which today has been made truth. Did I experience precognition? Did Fate
whisper in my ear, and I was too stubborn to listen? I hope that the passing of my friend, my
familiar, will lead me to some insight into my own beliefs, some understanding of the mysteries. If
I can learn some lesson from all of this, then TC will have left me with great gifts indeed...the gifts
of faith and understanding, the ability to trust my own experiences, and from all of those, perhaps,
the ultimate gift...the gift of eternal hope.