There was a time when he would jump onto my bed and stick his snoot in my face. The first thing I'd notice were his long, prickly whiskers. Then, if I wasn't too sleepy, I'd pet his fuzzy black head and back until he would plop down on his side as if a shot of barbital had just taken effect. And then for several minutes he would purr so loud that the folks upstairs could hear him through the bedroom ceiling. Finally, he'd get up and either jump down onto the floor, or walk over to the cushion that he knew was a bed of his own. And then he'd take a cat nap ... what other type of nap could he possibly take?
But I fear that those mornings are over. Last Wednesday my kitty-cat wondered off into the field for a while, maybe to hunt down a few field mice, just as he had done every day or every evening for about four years. That was a week ago. I had no hint that that might be the last I would ever see of him.
I always knew this might happen. It isn't easy being a country cat. The neighbors have dogs. The fields have wild coyotes. The woods have raccoons and only God-knows-what other critters. There's hardly any need to list all the things that can happen to a country cat.
Over four years ago, he was born in our barn. His mother was a stray. He had two brothers. Or maybe one was a sister, we don't know because a raccoon (we think) got it before we could tame it. The little black kittens hid in the cobweb-covered stack of old pallets in the lower stable of the barn, mewwing and terrified, hoping their mother would return soon, the only form of safety they had ever known in their tender, short lives. Four years ago might have been yesterday.
The first little kitten disappeared before we had a chance to know much about it. Like I said, a raccoon, we think. Then one day their mother disappeared, and we had two little kittens to feed and raise.
Luckily, they were old enough to drink milk. At first we'd have to put out the milk and go away so they would come out and drink. Later they got more used to us. One day one of them would let us touch him. A few weeks later, we were allowed to pick them up. A few weeks after that and they were as tame as if we had been the only mother they had even known.
Both were solid black. As they grew older, we noticed that one had short hair, and the other had long hair. Eventually, I named the one with the short hair "Sleek" --- but it wasn't long before he was referred to as "Slick." That's okay, his fur was both sleek and slick.
The one with the long, fuzzy hair got named Fuzzball. Remember the line from Star Wars, when Chewbacca gets upset about something and Harrison Ford turns to him and says, "Chill out, Fuzzball!" ... remember?
Slick was shy, and Fuzzball was the braver of the two. Before they were tamed, Fuzzball would hiss at me from between the old pallets.
Slick was also a hunter. When he grew up, he would go out into the fields on safari and be gone for weeks at a time. In December 2004 we had an 8-inch snow, followed by several nights of bitter cold. Slick wondered off and never came back. No need to list all the things that could happen to a black cat stuck in the blinding, white snow or the bitter December night.
Fuzzball was my baby. He would ride on my right shoulder as I carried him between the house and the barn. He'd watch the world go by over my shoulder while I cradled his rump in my left hand and petted him with my right. He never learned to control his claws, I could always feel them a little as he rode on my shoulder. I learned not to carry him that way without a shirt on.
In the final year, after Slick was gone, he developed a daily routine. He would show up at the door about sunrise. When the door was opened for him, he would come in and roll around on the floor, as if to dare his greeter to rub his belly. Then it was time for a bowl of milk. Usually my mom would serve the morning milk. The milk had to be warmed exactly twenty seconds in the microwave. He'd sniff the milk for a few seconds, and then plant himself into position so he could lap up the warm milk as quickly as he could. He usually licked the bowl dry.
Then often he would come down the stairs and find me in bed. That's when he would stick his snoot and whiskers in my face. Sometimes he had stickers in his hair, and I would fish them out. Then he would nap.
Sometimes his catnap would last all day. Toward supper time, he would come upstairs and meow. Then he'd get part of a can of canned cat food. Then it was time to go outside, probably to attend to some bathroom business, and then presumably to go hunting for the night. Or sometimes he would ride on my shoulder up to the barn to spend the night there in the barn.
If he napped upstairs, his favorite place was to nap on Mom's chair. He got so that he would race her to the chair, as if it was his chair. Then I'd have to go pick him up so that Mom could sit in her chair.
When we let him out in the evening, or when I took him up to the barn, I always knew there was a chance something would happen to him during the night. It isn't easy being a country cat. It isn't easy owning a country cat, either.
I've never loved a cat like I loved Fuzzball. He was my baby. Sometimes I would look at him, or pet him, and wonder how I would cope if he disappeared, or if I lost him somehow. I would think how much I loved him, and how it would hurt to say goodbye. As if I knew I would someday pay for the love he gave me with the pain of goodbye.
He had grown accustomed to hunting at night, and if I kept him inside all night he would be miserable. Country cats are just that way. When I'd say goodnight to him, I would pray for God to protect him through the night. It seemed like it always worked. Until it didn't.
There's no need to list all the terrible misfortunes that can befall a country cat. Country cats disappear all the time. As if I am the first to ever lose a pet, the loss grips my very being; but it is old terrain, old as the land itself. What words did Shakespeare use to capture grief? How can a horse, a dog, a rat have breath, but none for thee? You'll come no more, never, never, never, never, never.
He'll come no more to the porch doorway for the morning milk. Did God let me down the moment my little Fuzzball met his demise? Did God lead Mama Cat to our barn, knowing I would give her babies the love I did? What does one learn by loving a cat? What does one learn by losing a cat? Why do I lose a cat and ask confronting questions about God and His intentions? Who am I to ask such questions? Was little Fuzzball a special gift from God? If so, then why did God take him away? Why do I mourn so? Wouldn't it be just as proper to be thankful for the four years I had with him? What are the answers to these questions, or do these questions have answers?
He was just a cat. A cat that sometimes rubbed his cheek against my face as I petted him, as if to pet me back. A cat that purred in my lap through many a thunderstorm, he and I together listening to the rain falling against the tin barn roof. A cat that rode on my shoulder. I always could feel his claws prickling the skin of my shoulder. And I would cradle his rump in my one hand, and pet his fuzz-fur with the other. And he would purr, and rub his cheek against my face. ###
