I'll miss you, Charliecat.
On December 28, 2008, a cat showed up at my house. We tried a lot of names for him, but in the end -- he was Charles. I called him a lot of things -- Charliecat (never just Charlie) and Charlemagne, mostly, and when the mood took me, he was Karl der Große or Carolus Magnus.
He was a dark grey tuxedo cat and he immediately informed me -- and my mom, but mostly me -- that he was ours now. He came when I whistled and would follow me down the street when I went for a walk and would stand on his hind legs to brush his cheek against my hand.
We tried to let him in the house, but Jilly is a demanding creature and though he was quite happy to leave her alone, she wouldn't leave him alone -- and he was twice her size and four times as tough. So he had to stay outside because she would back him into a corner until he would fight back and hurt her while trying to protect himself.
Still, he stayed. He was always there and if you've been to my home in Miami in the time since he's been there, you met him. He was by far the friendliest cat I've ever met.
He's been showing up less and less since I left home. Mom saw him last week and called me, excited, to let me know he was still okay. And then it was yesterday and my niece, who arrived a few days ago, asked about him.
And she and my mom found him dead in the bushes. When my mom called me to let me know what had happened, her voice sounded like it did when she told me my dad died, when she told me my uncle was dying.
That's it, isn't it? Time just goes on and he was old when he showed up. At least this time, my cat didn't die in my arms. (That will always be the marker of how bad something was: better or worse than my cat screaming in pain as he died in my arms, like Sinkcat did.)
This entry was originally posted here at Dreamwidth. Comment here, there, or anywhere!
He was a dark grey tuxedo cat and he immediately informed me -- and my mom, but mostly me -- that he was ours now. He came when I whistled and would follow me down the street when I went for a walk and would stand on his hind legs to brush his cheek against my hand.
We tried to let him in the house, but Jilly is a demanding creature and though he was quite happy to leave her alone, she wouldn't leave him alone -- and he was twice her size and four times as tough. So he had to stay outside because she would back him into a corner until he would fight back and hurt her while trying to protect himself.
Still, he stayed. He was always there and if you've been to my home in Miami in the time since he's been there, you met him. He was by far the friendliest cat I've ever met.
He's been showing up less and less since I left home. Mom saw him last week and called me, excited, to let me know he was still okay. And then it was yesterday and my niece, who arrived a few days ago, asked about him.
And she and my mom found him dead in the bushes. When my mom called me to let me know what had happened, her voice sounded like it did when she told me my dad died, when she told me my uncle was dying.
That's it, isn't it? Time just goes on and he was old when he showed up. At least this time, my cat didn't die in my arms. (That will always be the marker of how bad something was: better or worse than my cat screaming in pain as he died in my arms, like Sinkcat did.)
This entry was originally posted here at Dreamwidth. Comment here, there, or anywhere!