A few weeks ago, a stray Siamese-looking cat showed up at my house out of the blue. I gave him some food, and he came back the next day. The third day, he brought a friend along; the scrawniest black cat you've ever seen, all bones and scars, like a Halloween poster come to life. The Siamese was friendly from the beginning, but the black cat would skitter away every time I came close. After I'd been feeding them for a week, I talked to her as she was hiding under my car: "Look, eventually you're gonna have to let me be friends." The next day I got to pet her for the first time.
As the feedings and pettings continued, they both grew trusting. They'd sit on the porch waiting for someone to come out. They were more interested in love than in meals, and would follow me back to the door meowing for attention after I set out food, rather than eating right away. They started filling out and looking healthier. The black cat had a nice sheen to her fur, and it was starting to grow back over a mass of scars on her side. The Siamese had a nasty wound on his neck that I dosed with antimicrobial cream. I started calling them them Simon and Inca, just for the sake of their having names. They had obviously both been pets at some time; they were desperate for human attention, and they were also very affectionate with each other. They'd rub up against each other when eating or being scratched.
Inca, the black cat, was really my favorite of the two, because she had so much personality. She had a very square, panther-shaped head, and a crotchety old lady sort of attitude. She was the one who wanted the most petting, and she always tried to follow me into the house. When Inca first showed up, I was puzzled that she always hissed at me, even when I was bringing her food or petting her; I eventually realized that she had lost her voice and was actually trying to meow. Over time, with regular food and water and some relaxation, her voice came back and she was able to meow properly, though never very loudly. She always took each mouthful of food out of the bowl and ate it from the ground instead of right from the dish. She was eccentric and funny.
There was a knock on our door tonight. One of the neighbors said the black cat had been hit by a car. Two older ladies across the street had a big flashlight focused on her, like a spotlight, and the large family next door were all milling around in their front yard. Inca was lying near the mouth of their driveway by the curb. Someone brought a plastic bag, and the lady with the flashlight asked if we needed anything. I said no but thank you, and we lifted Inca onto the bag and wrapped it up in a towel and took her home.
Her body was still warm and limp, but there were ants on her face and her mouth was set in a little snarl. I felt her side and there was no pulse or breath, though I was hoping so much I briefly imagined I felt her move. Her fur still felt soft and warm. The ants were biting my arms as I carried her and I didn't care. Simon wouldn't come near the body, but I think he already knew what had happened. We took her into the back yard. I guess we'll bury her tomorrow.
I know I only knew this cat for a few weeks, and I know those few weeks were made happier and more comfortable by my assistance. I know she was probably old and probably sick and is probably better off now. I know that she was probably hit by a car and killed almost instantly and did not likely feel much pain.
None of this kept me from crying my eyes out, and none of this is helping how it hurts, and none of it makes anything seem more fair about it. God, she was so sweet.
And since she won't have a gravestone, I guess she can have a little memorial here on Barbelith.
Bye, Inca. |
