Just a Cat

One winter night a friend of mine came across a tiny black and white long haired kitten being stoned by neighborhood children. She rescued him and brought him to me. Hearing how she had found him, I couldn't find it in my heart to say no. We named him Pooka.

He was small, starved for food and affection and the existing cats seemed to know that he'd been abused and were uncommonly gentle with him. He grew into a loving and affectionate animal and at six months, we took him to be neutered. Once he had been home a few days, he stopped eating and would sit with his head over the water bowl but not drink. He began losing weight, became lethargic. I took time off from work and stayed home with him, kept him warm and bottle fed him in between visits back to the vet's. They diagnosed a respiratory infection, prescribed antibiotics and isolation and told me not to worry.

He collapsed a few days later and we wrapped him in blankets and rushed him him to Angell Memorial but it was too late. Halfway there, he shuddered and died in my arms. It's a memory I've tried to forget for years.

My daddy was at my door the very next morning. I couldn't talk for tears and he didn't try, he just sat with me and let me cry. Later he talked to me about a place where there was no pain, no sickness, no suffering. A place where animals are loved and cared for until they're reunited with their people. Few people would've truly understood my grief - I'm more than familiar with the it was just a cat look - but he did. And he treated me as if I'd lost a child, which in my eyes, I had.

My daddy understood what it was to lose the things you love, even just a cat.