I was more naïve then, more forgetful, then there were changes. But before there were changes, there were signs. Each time a cat has died in my life, unpreventable change has occurred. As if their deaths were stone markers on my path.

Zuni was hit by a car. I was a little boy staring at this humble lump of fur, yet I felt the change. I saw her taken away in a garbage bag by strangers, strange men. They did not enjoy the task – I could see this was an arduous routine for them, carrying that garbage bag of cat. Ever so subtly, something shifted for me.

At that age, I was living with my mother in Oak Bluffs, in a neighborhood that was my introduction to the world. The yard was small and the house was near the street, and when cars went by at night their headlights shone on the ceiling of my room. Outside, there were lilacs. Our house itself was like an open wound: unfinished and raw. The insulating, sheet-rocking, and painting had been left up to my father, but my parents were divorced when I was born. After they divorced, my father sent my mother a card that said: “I love you the way I can.”

The next time a cat died would be my junior year in high school. My father found Spencer breathless, deflated under the kitchen table. My father and I buried him just before school that morning. Three feet down, wrapped in a towel, off in the brush, next to the house. Three of us, including my stepmother, stood there by that hole, staring at the bundle. I could not muster words or grief, just sadness for this object with sad memories.

By now, my brother had gone off to college, and I was the only one left at home, living with my father and his new wife. They got married when I was eight. They had made me the “flower girl” for the ceremony, and I took the responsibility of scattering petals very seriously. When little girls took the petals and began running around with them, I got angry, and then was so embarrassed that I hid around the back of the house for the rest of the day, crying. My brother once told me cats don’t meow naturally, that we train them to through reward. I don’t know if that’s true. I wonder if they can cry.

Zuni was Spencer’s mother, but for some reason she rejected him. Zoe was the cat who raised him. She was a small, feisty cat. She had a white belly and didn’t take crap from anything. Zoe died within the month of Spencer’s death.

She died while my father and stepmother were away on a trip and I was temporarily living with my mother. A caretaker saw Zoe to the vet, and through due process, she was cremated. It cost $300. When my father and stepmother came back, Zoe was in a bullet-shaped urn made of bronze with a red plastic cap. This strange urn waiting for them on the counter.

My father and stepmother did a lot of traveling together. They were well-suited to each other. They went to Europe, Maine, and Maryland, where my half-brother lives with his wife and her two brothers. I have only met my half-brother once. I have never been to Europe.

The next cat who died had no relation to the others. Robin was an energetic cat, climbing curtains, catching and killing birds. Successful, in cat terms. She was just a kitten when my father and stepmother got married, but she didn’t age well. She was eventually put down because she was old and in pain. Her hind legs didn’t work right so she would hobble and sometimes collapse pathetically on obstacles. Robin didn’t meow, she moaned to great effect. When she was put down it was winter. My father and stepmother, not wanting to spend $300 again, decided not to cremate her.

I am going to have to move out of this house in less than a month. My father and stepmother have sold the house and are moving to Maine permanently. I have no idea what I’m going to do. The odd thing about me is that I grew up in my mother’s poverty, and that I visited my father in his relative wealth. I can see people’s opinions of me change, depending on whether they drop me off at my father’s house, or at my mother’s. I’m ashamed of both houses.

The complications of Robin’s death were interesting. Since it was winter we could not bury her, because of the frozen ground. The solution was to put her in the meat freezer in the basement, and wait till the ground thawed. I write this now in the odd in-between moments of spring, waiting for them to remember what’s in the fridge.