Cats really do have nine lives, and sometimes everyone of them is obnoxious! But, a man can’t be all bad who loves cats!
Kittilrati! Must admit I have a fondness for cats; indeed those of you familiar with the Towers know that the Satikushes inform my every move. Apparently E.M. Sloan loves these little anarchists as much as I do, and are the subject of her finalist entry into our contest, Lost Love.
Upon reading her entry, reflect on our six finalists, all of whom are now posted, and leave comments for them all. Everyone who entered the contest can then let me know their favorite by emailing me at firstname.lastname@example.org. You are allowed one vote for each entry you submitted, and you can even vote for yourself,k if you like. I will total up votes at the end of the week and announce our winner, reveal the mystery trophy, and announce the next contest.
Dear diary, to those who live with zest:
First to depart was Pooh. Glossy black, elegant, refined. Carried her 21-year-old self with Audrey Hepburn poise. A late and finite arrival on the scene. Graciously adopted into the established odd-couple relationship of Chessie and Tommy. Pooh went in on the north edge of the yard, up in the rock garden where spring daffodils still burst through.
Chesapeake Topeka and the Santa Fe, Chessie. The first of this bunch to arrive—once upon a time a long while ago. The only one sought with purpose. Blue-gray and petulant. The CT&SF mascot, resting on a pillow. Symbol of the train line’s intended tranquil effect on travelers, yet Chessie was anything but tranquil. Even heavy with middle age, she sprang with abandon, chasing prisms of light across the floor or high up on a wall. Chessie went in left of the crabapple tree, the first of the south side burials.
Tommy Amadeus Mozart. Chessie’s uncharacteristic napping companion. Wild-whiskered, wide-jowl’ed, endearing tabby rambler. Tommy, known to pursue a dog half way around the block if one dared to enter our unfenced yard. Kingpin of purr’ers. Big ol’ affectionate buddy. He went in to the right of the crabapple tree.
Dirt Bag. Rumpled, dusty-brown, unkempt, feral. Often retreated to the hovel created for him beneath this same crabapple tree, a safe zone through all seasons. Two squares a day, heat lamp, and shout-outs. “Hey Dirt Bag, come on over!” The only one contained as ashes instead of flannel wrapped body; Baggers rests at the base of the crabapple, not far from Tommy.
Mr. Whiskers, the illustrated cat in Little Sallie Mandy and the Shiny Penny. “Tommy Whiskers was black all over and had big yellow eyes.” Whiskers. Whiskey, Whiskey Biscuit. Bicsuit. The doggiest of the bunch. Chased balls and wrestled sticks; long-haired tail held cocky and high in Pepé le Pew style. Chaser of squirrels up the steep trunked Linden tree. The one to leave too soon. He, too, went beneath the populated crabapple, left of center and next to Chessie. At peace with each other in death, as they could not be in life.
Bundles of fur and attitude; infiltrated and captured heart and hearth. Void fillers and void makers.
To those who live with zest: Give them this message from me. For each of you who has passed, for each of you here still, and for each of you yet to arrive, our swirl of unwavering argon atoms, shared with every breath for 2.5 billion years, yields courage and reason in this random upside down of a crazy world we inhabit.
You are ever present.