(no subject)
I waitress at a restaurant on the outskirts of my hometown. It's near a lot of forested areas and farms right off of the highway, and Saturday night I was driving home the back way because I didn't want to try to take the highway - it was so dark and foggy I couldn't see half a block ahead. I was just driving along pretty slowly (for me) because of the fog, and I saw a cat laying in the middle of the other lane. And it was instantaneous.
You know how that feels? When you just know something? Intuition, maybe. Or just memory. Like when your best friend moves away, and you haven't seen her in four years, but you could still recognize the back of her head in the midst of a crowd. I knew that was my cat. Even though I work seven miles away from my house through backroads and fields and pitts. And I kept driving until it really sunk in. Until I had time to doubt it. So I turned around and went back, and the whole time I'm telling myself, 'No, he wouldn't come this far, he never even leaves the fucking block,' but even then it was still, 'He could've climbed up underneath your car, it's not impossible,' and 'Even Dad pointed out yesterday he hadn't seen him in awhile,' and when I got back around to where Morris was I stopped. I had to know for sure.
People don't look the same when they're dead. In stories the deceased look like they're sleeping. In real life they're just shells. Horrible, monstrous mannequins. They're not people anymore, they're just bodies. I didn't realize until now that when you look at someone, you don't recognize them by their face, or their hair, or by the clothes they wear. That's what amateur imposters study - but that's why they're only amateurs. You recognize someone by their soul. Their mind. How they hold themselves, the way they walk, and talk, how they smile and laugh and cry. You recognize them by their eyes. How they crinkle when they smile, and flutter when they're sleepy. They shine, vibrant and full. Dead people's eyes are flat.
I didn't know then what I know now, so I looked at his face. How do you recognize someone when they're dead? I couldn't. But I knew that cat well enough, by the white spot on his back and the yellow patch on the back of his leg. It was Morris. I didn't know how to react. What was I supposed to do? I got back in my car and drove home. My dad and brother came back with me an hour later. We put him in a trash bag. My dad didn't believe it was him until he saw some pictures. He said tabby cats all look the same. But I knew.
We buried him the next day. As we were shoveling the dirt over him, my dad began with, "Morris was the best cat I ever had." And I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was so absurd, so ludicrous, that my dad was delivering a eulogy to a dead cat. My laugh sounded wrong. Twisted, and sick. Even I can recognize that now. I said, "Yeah. Thanks, Morris. You gave me a scar on my stomach and you bit me in the arm. You were a stray that drove off all the rest of cats and you wouldn't leave. And you threw yourself down right where I was always about to step so I would have to trip over myself to keep from squishing you. And now you're dead. Thanks a whole fucking lot."
I loved that cat. He was the only cat that ever stuck around. And he was always right by the front door when you came home, and he would rub against your legs until you petted him. He was always so friendly to everyone. And if you sat on the porch steps he would stick his nose under your arm.
Monday I reached down to grab the cat food before I realized. I thought that only happened in the movies.
You know how that feels? When you just know something? Intuition, maybe. Or just memory. Like when your best friend moves away, and you haven't seen her in four years, but you could still recognize the back of her head in the midst of a crowd. I knew that was my cat. Even though I work seven miles away from my house through backroads and fields and pitts. And I kept driving until it really sunk in. Until I had time to doubt it. So I turned around and went back, and the whole time I'm telling myself, 'No, he wouldn't come this far, he never even leaves the fucking block,' but even then it was still, 'He could've climbed up underneath your car, it's not impossible,' and 'Even Dad pointed out yesterday he hadn't seen him in awhile,' and when I got back around to where Morris was I stopped. I had to know for sure.
People don't look the same when they're dead. In stories the deceased look like they're sleeping. In real life they're just shells. Horrible, monstrous mannequins. They're not people anymore, they're just bodies. I didn't realize until now that when you look at someone, you don't recognize them by their face, or their hair, or by the clothes they wear. That's what amateur imposters study - but that's why they're only amateurs. You recognize someone by their soul. Their mind. How they hold themselves, the way they walk, and talk, how they smile and laugh and cry. You recognize them by their eyes. How they crinkle when they smile, and flutter when they're sleepy. They shine, vibrant and full. Dead people's eyes are flat.
I didn't know then what I know now, so I looked at his face. How do you recognize someone when they're dead? I couldn't. But I knew that cat well enough, by the white spot on his back and the yellow patch on the back of his leg. It was Morris. I didn't know how to react. What was I supposed to do? I got back in my car and drove home. My dad and brother came back with me an hour later. We put him in a trash bag. My dad didn't believe it was him until he saw some pictures. He said tabby cats all look the same. But I knew.
We buried him the next day. As we were shoveling the dirt over him, my dad began with, "Morris was the best cat I ever had." And I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was so absurd, so ludicrous, that my dad was delivering a eulogy to a dead cat. My laugh sounded wrong. Twisted, and sick. Even I can recognize that now. I said, "Yeah. Thanks, Morris. You gave me a scar on my stomach and you bit me in the arm. You were a stray that drove off all the rest of cats and you wouldn't leave. And you threw yourself down right where I was always about to step so I would have to trip over myself to keep from squishing you. And now you're dead. Thanks a whole fucking lot."
I loved that cat. He was the only cat that ever stuck around. And he was always right by the front door when you came home, and he would rub against your legs until you petted him. He was always so friendly to everyone. And if you sat on the porch steps he would stick his nose under your arm.
Monday I reached down to grab the cat food before I realized. I thought that only happened in the movies.