No one should ever really cry over a cat. Really. I know it. There is too much sadness and unfairness in the world that one should know better. It’s not even the first time those words have been in print.
My cat was murdered on a wet, hot, miserable night in early September.
John Denver was a tall, long-tailed, large-pawed, handsome, orange tabby cat. He somehow knew how to open any door (knobs included) without any instruction, tap you on the shoulder to get your attention, and he chased the dogs in circles and imitated people in such a way that we were convinced he never even knew he was a cat.
The truth is that John Denver was a cat. We, his family, were the ones who were confused. We humanized him. We loved him. We considered him family.
John Denver was always on then wrong side of every door, affectionately. He could never master a litter box 60% of the time. Or maybe he just liked his “morning glory” to the right of the box–we’ll never know. He scared the crap out of us on quiet nights when the locked doorknob rattled unexpectedly at his own paw. He laid across the sidewalk every morning when he saw us loading up the car–causing us to take that extra large (inconvenient) step. He picked fights with anything and anyone–including dogs, birds, and snakes–and never lost. He was fast and cunning, and yet oblivious at times. He could walk up walls and ceilings. He was magical. He even caught voles that were tearing up our lawn and delivered them dead on our doorstep, despite having no claws.
He kept us company. He entertained us. He frustrated us. We cuddled him even though he was aloof. We loved him even though he seemed to only love food (and could never get enough). He went out. He came in. We tried to make it work in his best interest. We longed for the day that our wild boy might sit in our laps.
Now, he’s buried in his favorite afternoon sunning spot.