Goodbye,
my Scar.
No one ever officially designated
me as a "crazy cat cartoonist"
but there was a time, only
a few of years ago,
when I kept the company
of at least eight cats,
seven of whom were pitch
black. These were my Horde,
all fated to someday protect
the world from the inevitable
zombie
legions.
Alas, they couldn't even
save the world from Donald
Fucking Trump or, at the
very least, themselves
as one-by-one they succumbed
to a more varied assortment
of ruination than I could
have thought
possible. Cancer, diabetes,
dog attack, old age, they
all took their toll. As of
last week I was down to
three
cats.
As of last night, only two
remained as I lost another
little hordite.
That cat was Scar, and he
deserves a moment of celebration
as he was a special
one. He was whip-smart
and a friend to all kitties,
though a nightmare to any
stray dog that eyed his food
bowl. And if a cat could
be said to have charisma
then
Scar
most
certainly had it as all moggies,
especially the lady cats,
strove to nap by his side.
In short, Scar was cool.
He was the Sinatra of cats.
Minus the mafia baggage,
that is.
He arrived at my feeding
station back in 2005, half-grown
and hungry. I easily caught
him
in my humane trap but he
fought so mightily to escape
that
he split his scalp open,
thus the name "Scar".
I soon had him neutered and
then released
him expecting never to see
him again. But he stayed,
knowing a sucker when
he saw one.
He was doomed to be an outdoor
cat all his life because,
even
though
neutered, he marked his territory
with all the
ferocity of a firehose. But
he was perfectly happy outside
and whenever I'd
spend
a moment giving him a good
scratch he'd gently grab
one of my fingers and give
it a soft chew in appreciation. Man
I loved that.
Things began going wrong
about two months ago when
I noticed he'd lost weight
and was growing noticeably
weaker. The diagnosis was
Feline Infectious Peritonitis
which is almost always a
death sentence.
Goddammit.
Thirteen is too young for
this shit.
Two weeks ago he'd become
so weak that I brought
him
inside
the
house, made
him a place of honor and
allowed
him
to eat
all he wanted. This past
Sunday afternoon I left to
do some quick shopping but
when I returned I found
him stretched out in front
of the
door, as if waiting patiently
for me to come home so that
he
might share his last breath
with
the one who loved him. Which
he promptly did.
I've
seen cats die before and
it's sometimes a traumatic
experience, but Scar just relaxed and let life slip
away.
I wouldn't have expected anything else from him.
The photo you see here was
taken four days before his
death and, even
so, he was still a handsome
beast. Even sick and
weak he was
still
the same happy cat he'd always
been, the one who always
seemed to
say
"Hey, man. No worries. It's
all
good."
In my back yard grows a large
oak tree. Ringing it is a
small circle of stones, each
marking the spot of each
of my cats'
final places of rest. A fresh
mound of earth, topped by
a spray of dianthus, cradles
Scar's remains but it's not
just a grave. It's a
door to another cosmii, one
in
which he's with all his friends
again.
Run free, little guy.
(Sorry for all this weepy
stuff. More politics soon.)
-----------
I am the Red Hen. I am
Maxine Waters. I am Patricia
Okoumou.
I am Kristin
Mink. I am Robert De Niro. I am
David Hogg. I am Emma Gonzelez.
I am Mike
Avenetti. I am Stormy Daniels.
I am Rachel Maddow. I am
Pickaxe Guy.
I am LeBron James. I am Robert
Mueller. I am Alexandria
Ocasio-Cortez. I
am Peter Strzok. I am Elizabeth
Warren. I am Heather Heyer. I
am Beto O'Rourke. I am
Andrew Gillum. I am
Senator Sheldon Whitehouse. I am
Botham Jean. I am Plaid Shirt Guy.
I am Ronan Farrow. I am Christine
Blasey
Ford. I am Julie Swetnick. I am
Deborah Ramirez. I am Colin
Kaepernik. I
am Taylor Swift. I am Kamala Harris. I am Ruth Bader
Ginsberg. I am Stacy Abrams.
Fuck Trump.
=Lefty=
|
