December 01, 2004
Luigi
My family cat Luigi died over the weekend. My mom called me up to tell me today. She seemed apologetic on the phone, but he was an old cat -- sixteen by our best count -- and he went quietly.
When Luigi was young he was hit by a car and badly injured. I found him curled up in the closet, the fur on his tail torn clean off and his hind legs raw and bloodied. We rushed him to the vet and he wound up with an amputated tail. After the accident his personality was recalibrated to something between a cat and dog. He was a little slower. He drooled and bumped into things. He learned how to play fetch.
He would sit in the kitchen and bark.
“Rowl”
“Well hello Luigi.
“Rowl”
“Yes, what do you make of this weather?”
“Rowl”
“Agreed.”
“Rowl”
“Look at that bird!”
“Rowl”
He loved talking so much you could never get the last word in. I tried once. For hours we went on like this.
“Enjoying youself?”
“Rowl.”
“That’s nice.”
“Rowl.”
“I think I’ll watch some tv”
“Rowl.”
“Looks like snow tomorrow.”
“Rowl.”
“Look, it’s Ronald Reagan.”
“Rowl.”
“What a long day.”
“Rowl.”
“You must be getting tired.”
“Rowl.”
“I think I’ll just lie down for a while.”
“Rowl.”
“Don’t wait up for me.
“Rowl.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going to bed now, goodnight.”
“Rowl.”
“Ok, this is ridiculous.”
“Rowl.”
“You win.
“Rowl.”
He introduced himself to guests and would touch them with a wet nose if they got too close. He sat on the heating grates in the winter. In the summers he’d find shafts of light by the windows and sit there, following the dust with eager eyes, purring and inscrutable.
My parents had to put him to sleep. Afterwards, the vets wouldn’t let them take the body home, apparently it’s against the law. I wish I had been there. I would have said I intended to taxidermy him, run off with the body, and then buried him in the backyard under cover of darkness. But he was cremated, which is a good way for a cat to go -- dust to dust, etc.
My family and I don’t know how to react. We are all privately shaken, but we are stoic about it on the phone. He was just a cat, we tell ourselves. But he was also one of us. I don’t know if we read it into him, or if he was born with it, but he had personality, a good natured and sweet personality – a personality like a little soul.
Rowl.
