Mack's Stacks of Books ... and stuff: Memoriam

He's dead. Just two little words but they slam an icy fist into the pit your stomach and your world changes.

The doorbell rings and an older lady is standing there holding a collar in her hand. I recognize it and smile. Where did he lose it this time? But the lady isn't smiling, she's distraught, in tears. Then she utters those awful words — He's dead.

Noah is lying in the street, dead, hit by a car, still warm when I get to him. It must have been very quick with no suffering, perhaps an adrenaline spike of fear at the approaching car. I carry him home wrapped in a towel, his blood seeping out onto my hand. I rinse my hands then go to tell Marilyn. And our shared, stunned, unbelieving grief begins.

He is in the foyer under a clean towel. We aren't ready to let him go. One of his feet pokes out from under the towel. Augie, the youngest, tapes at the foot, perhaps thinking that Noah is just hiding and wants someone to find him. Finally it's time and we take him to our vet who will handle his cremation. His ashes will join the urns of three of the cats who came before him. He is the only one to die violently.

Two days later and I relieve that morning many times a day. Seeing his body lying in the street as I round the corner is seared into my memory. I also think back to the night before when I went into the bedroom and gave him a hug as he lay on his favorite spot on the bed and got a lick in return. Then the next morning when I greeted him on his favorite place to spend the night, the orange chair in my work room. When I go into the living room he follows, going out on the deck as usual. Then he comes back in for breakfast, pausing at the same place by the couch where he usually pauses to be petted. He goes back outside; he will lose his life in about an hour and a half.

Perhaps these memories will fade but for now they are still raw wounds on my soul. And these memories are mixed in with guilt, the feeling that we let him down by letting him be in the place he died.

It's impossible not to look for Noah in all the places we would normally see him —the foot of the bed, the orange chair, the dry food bowl he so loved in the kitchen, his white paws glowing in the porch light when he returned home. And the distinctive thud of him jumping up to a bathroom sink for a drink. I don't think I ever saw him drinking from the pet water fountain in the kitchen. If you got up to go to the bathroom you could be certain that Noah would be waiting on the sink for you to turn on the tap. He would give a little meow to make sure you knew he was there. It was something you had to resign yourself to, waiting until he finished his drink. It must have been a comfort ritual for him because if he was in the house and anyone went to either of the bathrooms, Noah would be there for a drink. After being petted of course.

Noah must have had a traumatic kittenhood. He was easily spooked and would run to his safe place under the bed if he perceived the slightest danger. When we met Noah at the SPCA, he was pretty outgoing, playing with Molly, the cat we adopted at the same time. He was beautiful with big eyes. He had been adopted twice before but returned. We vowed that we would be his forever home no matter what. When we brought him home, we didn't see him for a week. He spent days hiding under furniture or under the bed. Our pet sitter of many years never saw Noah out and about during visits and would place his food under the bed. Eventually he became more trusting but never became the lap cat previous adopters expected.

We named him after Noah John Rondeau, a hermit who lived in the Adirondack mountains of New York State.

Noah and Marilyn had a special bond. It was a major event when Noah got up on the couch in Marilyn's study and just barely touch her. And there were times when Noah had an insatiable need for contact. Usually this was in the middle of the night when he would pummel Marilyn such that she took to wearing an extra layer to keep from being punctured. Never me, only Marilyn.

Someone is likely to say that if we had made Noah an indoor cat, he wouldn't have died. That's true but

We put a tracker on Noah

it wasn't Noah's nature. He had to have time outside or he would have gone crazy. Literally. We were probably complacent in the belief that the neighborhood was safe. He wandered all over but for some reason was fixated on one street and a storm drain that he would disappear into. About twenty feet from where he died. A neighbor's dog had to investigate the storm drain whenever he was walked along that street.

Once we thought we had lost him. He ran out into a snow storm, thick snow blanketing the ground. Without his collar. When he didn't return that night or the next, we feared that he was frozen under a bush somewhere. When the weather cleared, I took flyers to houses in the area Noah liked to hang out but no one I talked to had seen him. Days passed and we were convinced he was gone. One evening I walked past the door to the deck and thought I saw motion. Opening the door, in strolled Noah, none the worse for wear. He didn't act like he was starving so we speculated that found shelter with a neighbor who saw the flyer and realized had had a home and let him out. But we'll never now. Just one of the mysteries surrounding Noah.

Noah was a gentle introvert who didn't reveal much about himself. He needed his freedom but knew where home was. That's where he was heading.

RIP Noah. You are missed.

To those of you who got this far, I am going to confess something now. I am grieving more over the death of Noah than I did with the death of my parents and my only sibling. I don't know how normal this is but I don't feel abnormal. Noah was an integral part of our daily life and losing him has had a more visceral impact than other deaths I have experienced.

I have a follow up post on this topic — Adjusting to the death of a pet cat.

More photos of Noah