About a year ago, my wife Jean’s cat Cedric, a fortnight shy of twenty-one, was in a rapid spiral toward eternity, and Jean had to go visit her folks, in a similar vortex, just without the immediacy. Jean had to leave on a Thursday and didn’t want to chop the final day or two from Cedric’s breath, just to suit her schedule. So
I told her to go on to her folks’ place and I’d stay and deal with the cat –
besides, my dear little cousin Heather was east from Oregon and I wanted her to come hang out with me.
And so it was that on Saturday, Cedric went off to join the sky. I called Jean and explained the tranquility of the day. Then Heather – who had turned down a modeling contract to attend and subsequently drop out of Bard College, and did not bring shoes east with her – anyway, she and I saw to Cedric and then made our predictable Island rounds.
The following day, Sunday, I took Cedric’s bowl and favorite food to our new neighbors across the street, as I knew that they had cats. And when I gave them the Fancy Feasts, the man almost chortled and broke into what could only be considered a smile, upon which he apologized and thanked
me for the food and dish. In the final, parting moments of conversation,
he explained what he had found so amusing. “I’m sorry to hear about
your cat, honestly, but I’m also kind
of relieved.” The smiled returned.
“I knew your wife was away and
when I saw you and that tall blonde digging a grave, well. . . .”