Eulogy for a yellow cat
Last Friday I said a final good-bye to Louie, the yellow cat who came to live with us 17 years ago, when my husband died. My daughter was hugging him, as he lay on the steel table in the vet's office, and he was purring that outrageous purr, as he quietly embarked on his long sleep.
It was very peaceful. He could have been on his blanket on the back of the sofa, enjoying the morning sun and watching the yellow birds on my feeder. His favorite was the perky little house finch with the twitchy tail.
Louie was a tiny yellow striped ball of fluff with enormous ears, when my daughter and I went out to a friend's house and gathered him up to come live with us and another young black cat named that I named Tybalt.
We chose Shakespearian names for both of the cats, but "Balthasar" didn't stick to the yellow cat. The first time my son saw him, he named him Louie.
Louie grew into an enormous cat, but he never knew it. In his mind, he was always smaller than his slightly older buddy, so all the battles were one-sided, with Louie ending up on bottom, squealing.
Supposedly, he was my daughter's cat, but we all know how that goes.
When my daughter left home, Louie stayed with me. He and Tybalt sat through many a dark, stormy night with me. During the ice storms, when my rural home had no electricity and trees were crashing all around in the darkness, it was Louie and Tybalt, who crowded on my lap to keep me warm.
When the house was sad, the two cats would chase toy mice or a string on a stick and make us laugh.
Louie loved to eat, and he grew impatient if his food bowl was empty, so he took out his frustration on my furnishings. He seemed particularly irritated by my outlandish 1970's fruit wallpaper in the kitchen.
He began tearing loose a piece in the corner by the window, and he continued to work on this project each day when I was gone to work, or when my back was turned.
Before too long, the corner looked as if it had been in the middle of one of their cat fights. Strips hung in tatters, and I actually tried to Scotch tape them back together.
Several years ago, my daughter decided that Louie was right--the wallpaper was horribly out of date. She and I stripped it off the walls, with the help of one son and my sister. It was a massive effort, but, when we were finished with the final paint job, I had to admit that Louie was right. The kitchen looked much better in pale yellow.
Louie was never a flamboyant cat. He had only one "trick," which was to raise himself completely off the floor, when he arched his back to be petted.
Mostly, he just sat around in the sunshine, eyes half-closed contently, looking like the yellow tabby cats on greeting cards. He loved my daughter, and he agreed to meet her at the front door with Tybalt, when she came home from college and later, after she had her own home.
He did not like children, so, when the grandchildren came along, Louie was nowhere to be seen. He hid under the computer desk, or in extremes, he went upstairs to the hallway, where toddlers were not allowed.
He loved my sister Kathy, especially in the years when she had her long acrylic fingernails. He called her "Aunt Fingernails," and he ran to have her scratch his back.
When my non-cat loving friends have asked me why on earth I have cats in my house, I explain as best I can. The cats have served their original purpose--and more.
After a death in the family, a house is a sad place. The cats gave us a reason to come home. They were always at the door to greet us. When I was alone and depressed, they sat on my lap and purred, happy just to be there with me. In the icy hours of frozen darkness, they sat with me in front of the fire, as the trees cracked and broke around me.
They have been my friends and companions through the good times and the bad.
Tybalt is alone now. As sad as I am to have lost my sometimes troublesome yellow cat, I cannot imagine what it will be like when my "Prince of Cats" is gone.
Farewell, Louie the yellow cat. May you find a warm patch of sunshine in which to spend eternity.
You will be missed. And, you know--you never did finish that redecorating project in the upstairs bathroom...
From the stormy hills of Southeast Missouri, this is your rural reporter, Madeline, missing an old, faithful friend.
Comments
- -- Posted by Dexterite1 on Tue, Apr 29, 2014, at 6:34 AM
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