It's been two years two years since my Cat Yuki passed

Here's to good times and happy memories.

Cats are cool, enjoy.

I have had many cats during my life, three at present and I must say that they have all left paw prints upon my heart and soul. It has been two years since "Willow" died and every day there are moments when I look to see if she is just hiding instead of just gone. Her ashes are in a small cedar box next to ashes of Teddy, Bear, Simon, Natasha, etc, etc, etc... Have even written OBITs for them...

Teddy

May 1992 – November 24, 2006

Teddy came into our lives in June 1992 when he and his brother, Bear were found when they were about 6 weeks old in a cardboard box dumped along street in Paradise Hills. These two kittens brought joy and trouble into our lives for fourteen years. When it was cold Teddy would snuggle up under the blankets at night and sleep contentedly. During the day would sit in the window to soak up the sun and watch the world go by and during the evening hours as we sat reading he would curl up on your lap content. Teddy was a Houdini who can get into anything and out anything. His greatest feat was the day he escaped from a neighbor’s house while his was being fumigated. He clawed a hole in the metal screen of a second story window, leaped to the roof below, and later onto the ground. We found him patiently waiting for us outside the front door ready to go home, his home. He was like a little angel that left only his paw prints upon our hearts and we would give anything to have him back into our life. Teddy was diagnosed with two forms of cancer and underwent surgery that we hoped would prolong his life in relative comfort. But after a month, just after 11:00 am this morning Teddy passed over the Rainbow Bridge where his brother sat patiently awaiting him for three years and now they wait for us.

They will not go quietly,

The cats who’ve shared our lives.

In subtle ways they let us know

Their spirit still survive.

Old habits still make us think

We hear a meow at the door.

Or step back when we drop

A tasty morsel on the floor.

Our feet still go around the place

The food dish used to be,

And, sometimes, coming home at night

We miss them terribly

And although time may bring new friends

And a new food dish to fill.

That one place in our hearts

Belongs to them…

And always will.







Mittens

May 1995 – January 2009

Mittens came into our lives one summer afternoon when I heard laughter and meowing coming from the streets of my quiet condo neighborhood. Going outside I discovered what the commotion was and quickly rescued a small black kitten with white paws and chest from several children who were taunting and throwing rocks at him along street in Paradise Hills. Instead of being terrified he calmly curled up in the crook of my arm as I carried him home as he purred contentedly. Mittens was decidedly a lap cat and it did not matter who you were if you sat down on a chair, sofa, at the dinner table, or even the porcelain throne, he wanted to be held, to be loved and woe if you decided that you needed to get up. A gentle meow, “please, just a bit longer” he would say and you would stay a bit longer. He knew when I came home he knew the sound of all three of our vehicles over the fourteen years and he would be waiting for you at the door as you came in as he rubbed up against your leg or waited patiently for you to sit down. At night he would climbed into bed to lie at our side as he guarded our sleep and our dreams. Mitten was a special cat, who would sit next to the keyboard as we searched the internet or next to the painting table as I painted miniature figures as he soaked up the heat from the lamp, and when we wanted to read he was always there to help us turn the page of the newspaper or a book. He loved to sit on our lap as we read and the warmth that he shared as he slept there contentedly as you read will be sorely missed. Mittens died this morning, January 9, 2009 after a short illness that was both painful for him and us. He has passed over the Rainbow Bridge and now waits for us.

They will not go quietly,

The cats who’ve shared our lives.

In subtle ways they let us know

Their spirit still survives.

Old habits still make us think

We hear a meow at the door.

Or step back when we drop

A tasty morsel on the floor.

Our feet still go around the place

The food dish used to be,

And, sometimes, coming home at night

We miss them terribly

And although time may bring new friends

And a new food dish to fill.

That one place in our hearts

Belongs to them…

And always will.





Butterscotch

May 30, 1997 – June 19, 2009

Butterscotch came into our lives one summer evening when Elaine was feeding abandoned cats in our quiet condo neighborhood. She came in carrying this small long hair cat that had a golden tail, ears, and the back of his head. Everything else was white. He paw pads were so furry and thick they look like fuzzy snow shoes. We later found out that he was a Turkish Bey breed of cat. We named him Butterscotch and he was most decidedly an obnoxious me-first cat who would push his way onto your lap to situate himself between you and any other house cat that may have been sitting in your lap prior to him. Not content with that he would crawl upon your chest to put his face into yours letting you know he was the number one cat that you should be paying attention to. He was a loud cat. His woe-is-me meows called out that he was hungry despite the fact that there were three bowls of food out. He walk in between your legs as you prepared dinner meowing constantly that he wanted what ever you were preparing regardless if it was just a onion being sliced or a chicken being de-boned for a soup. If you turned your head away from your dinner plate he would leap up on the table to try to eat what ever was there or drink your milk. He knew when you came home for he knew the sound of our vehicle and would be waiting for you at the door as you came in to dart outside when he knew he should not. Despite all his short comings Butterscotch was an affectionate cat who would lie contently for hours upon your lap with a purr that was soothing. After losing over two thirds of his body weight in less than a month Butterscotch was diagnosed with advanced liver cancer failure this morning, June 19, 2009. He has passed over the Rainbow Bridge and now waits for us.

They will not go quietly,

The cats who’ve shared our lives.

In subtle ways they let us know

Their spirit still survives.

Old habits still make us think

We hear a meow at the door.

Or step back when we drop

A tasty morsel on the floor.

Our feet still go around the place

The food dish used to be,

And, sometimes, coming home at night

We miss them terribly

And although time may bring new friends

And a new food dish to fill.

That one place in our hearts

Belongs to them…

And always will.





Feline Lost Souls



Heaven is legion. Each created species has its own paradise. So does this mean that Saint Patrick was right? Give them souls if only little ones? Yes, Saint Patrick was right, and I am the guardian angel of cats. Seraphim, of course, an angel of the night.

Does this mean that Tiddles will go to heaven, or Tiger or Fluffy? No, sadly it means no such thing. Their souls rise, of course, when they die. I meet them here at the gate, but any creation can go awry. The heaven of cats is very wild, a jungle in parts, a savannah in others. The real tigers go there, the lions, the ocelots. But the average house cat takes one look and runs back to purgatory with her tail between her legs.

It’s three seconds into the new day and I already have ten clients waiting. It is fortunate that cat purgatory exists outside of space, or I would have run out of capacity centuries ago. I show them through to where the others are waiting. Some have been waiting here since the dawn of domestication, and may well remain forever. I wouldn’t have any job satisfaction at all if it weren’t for those that wait at the other door, the humans.

The first soul in line died old. You can always tell the ones that lived long and well, there is a richness to them that goes beyond mere appearance.

“You’re the cat angel?” she asks.

The sign on the door aside, it is usually the pointy ears and long whiskers that give me away.

“I just died yesterday,” she continues. “And I was gaga for most of the last year. Well, I don’t know how many times my son promised he would look after her, but somehow I just knew…”

“You think that your son has..?”

“Had my cat put to sleep, my Snowball. She wasn’t even very old, but I know he hated her.”

I opened the great book. It fell to the correct page as it always did. Some of my kin like their records to look like computers these days, but it doesn’t make them quicker or better.

“We have thousands of ‘Snowballs’ here,” I warn. “There’s really only one way to proceed.”

She looks a little uncertain, as I lead her through to purgatory. It looks like a deserted hall to most people, its far walls extending into a depthless gloom. That cat souls aren’t cold, or hungry, or even scared really… but they are suffering. Spread out to every horizon there is nothing but their glowing, waiting eyes.

Most of them look when I come in the door, though few retain much hope. The newer ones crowd near the front with heart-rending eagerness. I take the old lady by her spirit-hand and lead her out to meet them. A thousand golden eyes blink and waver, and one glad meow rings out.

Snowball leaps out of the masses and into her human companion’s arms, and simultaneously one of the many Snowballs is erased from my book.

“That nasty boy,” she says. “I knew it, I knew it.”

Not your fault, Snowball replies. It didn’t hurt, and besides I would rather be here with you.

They leave together without a backwards glance. Thousands of cat souls look away again, just fractionally more disappointed every time.

It is His concession to the cats that they can go to human heaven, but only if their human companion comes to get them. He won’t have them wandering stray all over paradise. A domestic soul, after all, needs a household to be happy, even here.

The second in line is more of a problem.

“Cinder died before me, she must be here!”

Row upon row of pensive cat eyes, even a few Cinders, but not the right one. I check the records.

“I see the problem,” I say. “Cinders has already gone, with a lady by the name of Mrs. Smyth.”

“I knew it,” he explodes. “That old bat was always feeding my cat, sucking up to her while I was away at work. I pay the vet bills, do the spaying, the worrying when she stays out all night, and now here I am without a cat!”

“You could try time-sharing her?”

“Are you serious!”

I gave her the kind of look that reminds a soul that they are talking to a gen-u-ine Angel.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t even like the cat that much. She wouldn’t sit on my knee, she never purred. But she just wouldn’t let me have another cat. I tried once with a kitten. Cinders beat the absolute crap out of it. I mean stitches and everything, so I gave it away. She was the only cat I ever had, so now the neighbor’s got her and I am set up for eternity without a cat.

“Sorry Mr. Pederson,” I reply softly. “Invite me by some time for a saucer of milk.”

He looks a little worried.

“Joke,” I say.

Not everyone feels comfortable around a six-foot bipedal cat with a twelve-foot wingspan. Or maybe he’s just not a cat sort of person really, but I could see how it was the blood pressure that got him in the end.

The third one was old too. His entry into purgatory caused more than the usual amount of interest.

“Blacky?” he said.

“Meow!” (spring).

“Spotty, Phantom, Tabby?”

“Meow.”

“Meow.”

“Meow.”

Quite a crowd forming.

“I always loved cats,” he explains. “Any kind of cat, since I was a kid. Now let me see; little Blacky, Fatso, Spike, Tabby and the other Tabby and Whiskers.”

All of the cats milled around him gleefully.

“Whiskers, how long has it been, twenty, twenty-five years?”

Too long.

“Fatso, eight years, ten? Whiskers meet Phantom.”

Charmed.

“Now, there was another one. I was about six or seven… small and black. Damn me but the name escapes me. I mean, that would have been seventy year ago.”

He scans the sea of cats.

“Small and black, blue eyes?”

He looks at me hopefully. I shrug; it isn’t much to go on really.

“It always seems to be the name that brings them in,” I say apologetically.

“Damned if I can remember… I had two Blackys and three Tabbys you notice, never very original about names.”

“Not another Blacky?”

“No not that, but something like…”

“Sooty,” I offer. “Shadow, Jet?”

“No, wait. That stuff, you know, that they used to black the old wood stoves. I think it had lead in it.”

“Zebo?”

“That’s it, Zebo!”

“MEOW!”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all until Tabby number four pops off, but then he might decide to stay with little Judy. So nice of her to take him in, but let me know when he comes in and I’ll come by to ask.”

Zebo’s look of gratitude is almost pathetic; the whole clowder follows him off to his home.

Clowder is the collective noun for cats you know; a clowder of cats. I cast an eye over the endless fidgeting of the remaining cat souls. This is more like an army, a swarm, an infinite of cats.

Eleven leave, but there are already over fifty more new cat souls waiting to join them. There is no getting ahead on this one.

Another human lady edges in.

“I’m looking for Nibbles?”

I show her through.

“Nibbles,” she calls. “Nibbles?”

There is no answer

“Are you sure Nibbles has passed on?” I ask.

She bursts suddenly into tears.

“Yes I’m sure (sob). Nibbles I’m sorry.” She turns to me. “I was only ten and I didn’t know. Dad said we had to move so that he could get a new job after the mine closed. I just assumed that Nibbles would be coming. On the day we all got into the car. I was saying ‘Where is Nibbles, where is Nibbles’ and Dad said he’d run away. He said Nibbles liked it here and that Mrs. Munro would look after him…”

I had a very bad feeling about where this story was going.

“It wasn’t until I was over forty years old that Mum told me that he had SHOT HIM. He had just taken Nibbles out back and SHOT HIM BECAUSE HE JUST COULDN’T BE BOTHERED PACKING HIM UP AND BRINGING HIM ALONG. Mummy, even Mummy said we could just get another cat, but I didn’t want another cat. I never did have another cat.”

I sensed a certain tremulous interest out near the very edge.

“Try again,” I said.

“Nibbles!” she called. “I didn’t know, I would have stopped him… I would have tried to stop him.”

Really?

“I swear it, please come with me now. I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you.”

Slowly at first, but quicker and quicker and finally in great leaps and bounds, Nibbles made his way to the front.

I waited and waited. Dad didn’t come, Mummy didn’t come, little Georgie didn’t come, he didn’t even remember me!

“I came, as soon as I could I came.”

You came.

All hesitation fled and Nibbles left happily with his companion. Not looking back. Once they were together they never looked back, at all those left behind.

The human waiting area was beginning to look a little crowded too. I showed another man through.

“I’m looking for Plucky?”

No answer again.

“Always wanted a cat,” the man said wistfully surveying the scene around him with some amazement. “Mum couldn’t abide them. Then I got married at seventeen, and Mabel was allergic so that was that. Well, when she passed on there was the scraggly feral thing. I spent months feeding him and luring him in, almost had him too. Then I found him on the road, stone dead, buried him under the roses. Went into hospital myself not long after that, and never came out. Then I heard about this place. No insult intended or anything, but I wouldn’t like to think he was in here… Plucky, Plucky?”

I couldn’t find him in the book. Then I had a thought and took out the other book.

“Sorry Sir, but it seems that Plucky really was very feral. He’s gone straight on through to cat heaven and stayed there.”

“With the wild animals and all? Well it doesn’t surprise me really he was a wild’un. Still, always did want a cat. Don’t suppose I could take one of these?”

The effect was electric. We were fixed with the intense gaze of a million, million cat souls. Intense, bright eyes full of hope against hope.

I have been here almost a thousand years. No one comes for me; no one will be coming for me. Take me.

There is dignity in the request, but desperation also.

I am Bilqis. Take me?

“And gladly,” the man replies. They both look to me.

“How could I refuse,” I say, paws raised, and they leave together.

The eyes of the lost souls of cats are still fixed on me as I leave. A new hope it welling up in those abandoned beyond all hope of remembrance by those who had cared for them in life.

“If you will excuse me for a minute,” I say to those waiting. “I really must have a quick word with God.”