I’ve been out of sorts today. I’ve been wondering if I should keep doing this.
Maisy is on her chair, and I can watch her grooming. She just had a can of this excellent tuna food. You would have liked it. I should have given you more food like that.
Let me remember you. Let me have the moment.
There it is.
I was going to say that the day we said goodbye still ranks as the worst day of my life. But that’s not right. It was the day when I felt the most. It was the day that I howled. The day I felt the most for another living thing. Because you and me both know that I don’t like people all that much.
Smurf, I could tell you about the year I’ve had. It has been humbling. I have made some bad mistakes. And I have had my best moments with foster kids, where I finally understood the job, which is to love them. Our foster home is now closed, because it was too hard, because we can’t, won’t, have kids. It breaks my wife’s heart in a seemingly literal sense, and I miss the kids more than I can say, even after a year. I know that I can love, at least. Better late than never.
But we’re here for the cats, right?
Let me bring you up to date.
Maisy will be 10 on Halloween. I read recently that a cat’s life-span is 12-15 years, and I immediately thought, I only have two years left with her. That’s a hard thing to accept. But I will tell you that I love her, and celebrate her. She delights in climbing the fence and escaping most days, she delights in me seeing her do it. In the summer months, she migrated to the catio during the day, but now the weather is cooling down and she joins me in her Victorian chair, spends the day in the classroom while I teach. When it gets colder still, I hope she will remember the warmth of our bed, and come find the hot water bottle by my feet at night. I believe she is as fast as she’s ever been, and while she shows little affection for her sister, she and I continue to be supremely close. She is my favorite and the world around us knows it.
Daisy is still the pretty one, the clever one, and the one who wakes us up in the morning. 10 years? Thousands of wake-ups. She remains forever hungry, and will make her biscuits if we just talk to her, if we tell her our stories. I continue to tell her that she is the very best Daisy cat in the world. She weighs too much but can still run fast when she wants to. And she is a miracle cat who is content to stay in the garden. We feed her diet food and she spends the rest of the time hunting down the other cats’ meals. She is cunning thief and I love her very much. I just want her to be happy and healthy, and I can’t imagine our home without her.
Kitten, after six years, has shown signs of being social. Most visitors don’t know we have a ginger cat, but Kitten has been more confident. If only Milo could understand how Kitten likes to be played with, the way that Sully instinctively understood. She is sweet, and she is increasingly vocal. She still knows where ‘under the bed’ is but I rarely find her there. She is, and will always be, Rebecca’s scaredy-cat.
Milo has been here for two years. He is the most popular with guests, but isn’t that always how it is with the boy cat? He is confident, playful, and would eat dry food all day if I let him. Every night I throw the food for them, and if I’m late, Milo is the master of the mournful miaow, the one that gives me a headache. He would be happier in a home with children, and we’re not that anymore. He is a good cat, except for when he bullies the others, except for when he stays out too long and I worry. I’ve ordered a tracker that is due to arrive next month, and all cats laugh at my chances of getting it to work.
I’m writing this two days before our anniversary, before I take my walk and talk to you. Either I’ll go to our usual place, or I’ll do it by the Sully tree. I still miss Sully very much, and I think of adding four cats to my grief, and it will be the price of living, won’t it. I have cried writing this, and I will cry on the day. And that’s okay. I’m tired of thinking badly of myself, and I think of those human relationships around me – this last year has laid bare the inadequacy of my American family, they have collectively shown that they do not know my wife, that they do not care to try. She has never needed her family so much, and they have all failed. And so while I miss my Scottish family deeply, and while I would like more friends here in America, my best friends continue to be the feline kind.
Murphy, I remember the day we found you. I remember the day we let you go. And I remember so much of the time in-between, and I think of it as good times. I tell people stories about you and they are about your cunning, your popularity with the neighbors. But I will tell you know that the best moment was when you would come in from outside at night, when you would jump on the bed and purr. And we would be a family. I loved to hear your purr, and I loved to have you watch me in the garden. You kept eyes on us both, because you were looking after us. And we sure as shit needed looking after.
I will speak to you soon. And I will write more than this, I will begin to write something beyond cats. You won’t care about that, but I wanted to tell you anyway.
My best boy. My sweet, clever, vicious tiger. I love you and miss you.
Difficult Second Novel 