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Requiem for a CatBy Allan G in California, USADooDooHis name was Doo Doo. Don’t laugh, he got that name fair and square. When he first came through the hole in our fence, fourteen years ago, that’s what he answered to. “Doo doo, doo doo,” my wife called to him, and down the hill he came. The name stuck, and okay, you can laugh if you want.
I sure miss that boy. Some people who aren’t partial to felines say that cats are really only interested in their owner’s body heat and catering services, that the love between cat and owner is all one way. Well, who knows? Maybe they’re right. Maybe she loves you for your money, too. Some things aren’t worth looking into too deeply. Back when I used to be an in-home salesman I’d come across families with cats all the time. I’m not trying to exaggerate here, but I bet that once a month I’d hear some version of the following: “I can’t believe Muffy is letting you pet her! She usually hates strangers!” Which might just mean I didn’t choose cats. Maybe they chose me. So, apparently, cats know, and for sure I know. I’m cat people. And Santa Cat makes sure that all cat people who are really good get one perfect cat in their lives. Mine was Doo Doo. In his prime he was a magnificent, fourteen pound, five-inch whiskered, glowing, golden athlete. He had flowing orange fur, cosmic green eyes, the speed of a ghost and more grace than you’d think it’s possible to have on a planet with gravity. What I could never figure out was who could discard an animal like that. We know he was either a runaway or abandoned because when he we finally took him to the vet we found out that he was already “fixed,” and as much as five years old. But we never saw a flyer, never heard a word, not once in fourteen years. My guess is that he was somebody’s pet once upon a time, but had been feral for a while before he adopted us. It didn’t happen all at once. When we first saw him in the overgrown jungle of our steep backyard, he was very wary. My wife left some swordfish out and he waited until we were inside before approaching the bowl. Little by little he let us get closer to him, until one day he stood still for a petting that was a joy for both parties. He had a set of fur a mink would envy. I wasn’t the only one who thought Doo Doo was about as gorgeous as a cat can be. Dracula said so too. He sounded like Dracula, anyway. But this guy was delivering pizza. He wasn’t a young man, so I’m hoping he was either related to the owners or a recent transplant from Transylvania. “You have a bee-yootiful cot,” he sang, thereby tripling his tip. I’m a nightowl and so was Doo Doo. We’d haunt the dark together. If I got off schedule and took a midnight nap, Doo Doo would too, and fall asleep so close to my nose I’d be grateful he was such a fastidious groomer. And when he eithergot bored or thought maybe I was dead, he’d ever so gently put out a single claw and touch my face, telling me it was time to get up and go to work, and oh, by the way, how about some fresh food? Doo Doo never forgot he was a free animal. Early on he’d leave for days at a time, but he always came back. I don’t know if it was the food or the love—maybe to a cat there’s no difference. But for every moment of the fourteen years we were lucky enough to have him we made damn sure he had plenty of both. But now he’s gone. Goodbye, old buddy. If there is a kitty heaven I know they’ll make you an angel and you won’t need their wings. You already know how to fly. Contact Form CatLover Magazine Subscription Form
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