Eulogy

I lost my little boy today.

Scratchy Norman Williams was born sometime in June of 1989 in Decorah, Iowa. He was one of a litter of 3 kittens, all of them pure white. I picked him, because I knew that my great-uncle Roger shot all tom kittens before they grew up, in order to protect his Alpha Cat, Tom. He was named after the main character of a children's book I had been reading about the time I adopted him.

Scratchy was a true farm cat. He had plenty of old John Deeres to climb on. He wasn't scared by much of anything; he paid no mind to most of the livestock, except cows. He was terrified of cows. The first time I lost him was in a cow pasture. He took one look at their swishing tails and clawed his way out of my arms. It took the better part of an hour to find him again.

First and foremost, Scratchy was determined. When he decided something, it happened. The one exception I can think of, is when we took him to get his rabies shot at a pet shop. We were waiting in line between two very big German Shepherds. Scratchy decided that he wasn't going to be anywhere near those dogs. We caught him in the parking lot right before he started crossing Cerrillos Road. I had to hold him like a football, upside-down, my hands holding his paws (two paws per hand) with his head clamped firmly in my armpit. He did get his shots that day, much to the amusement of the other customers, who had noticed that my armpit was making very, very angry growls and yowls.

In fact, the only other thing that could inspire such operatic cat protests was my horn playing. Every week during my lessons, he would pace the upper landing, yowling to wake the dead.

When we first adopted Scratchy, it was against my dad's protests. Dad gave in to his little girl's pleas, but didn't want to have much to do with what was basically an asthma attack on four legs. Like most cats, Scratchy was always drawn to those who wished him away. After several nights of pushing him off the bed, my dad threatened to throw the kitten against the wall if he tried to sleep with my parents again. In the wee small hours of the next morning, I heard a distinct thump from the wall of the room above mine. Sure enough, Scratchy had attempted another assault. He lost that battle. As for the war, well, let me just say that until today, Scratchy slept with my dad every night.

And Scratchy's nighttime rules were strict. He sleept in the middle of the bed. Preferably between your knees, where his skinny body could get some heat. Rolling over was prohibited, and was punishable by cat sighs. If you had to get up in the middle of the night, a corner of the comforter laid over him was all he needed to know that you were coming back. If you left him bare, he'd leave.

As a kitten, he didn't much like being pet. When it was time for attention he'd let you know. He'd also let you know where to administer affection, and with what hand. By about 8 years old, he had mellowed into a regular cuddlepuss, however, and no lap was safe from him. He especially liked long football games, where he'd be guaranteed my dad's lap (always his favorite) for several hours at a time.

In fact, he won over my dad so much, that after I graduated from college and hinted that I might like my cats back when I found a suitable apartment, I found that I couldn't take him. The look on my dad's face made me realize that the kindest thing to do would be to leave the two pals together. I don't regret that decision; Scratchy lived out his retirement the way he wanted, with a running cat fountain, a lap that belonged to a telecommuting human, and a humanside warming plate (AKA "laptop computer") for those times when the human needed more space.

There's so much to say about this wonderful cat that I'll never quite be finished. He was the fulfillment of years of girlish dreams and yearnings. He kept me company when I tried to cry myself to sleep during difficult teenage years. He started a Sunday nap ritual when I didn't get enough sleep during the week. He endured at least a dozen moves, including two cross-country. He rolled in red desert dirt and stood startled in two-foot-deep snowdrifts. He survived an interloping pet dog who tried to drag him about by the head, and another dog who mothered him as a kitten and bathed him within an inch of his life.

And now he, too, is gone. I'm grateful that his end was relatively quick; his last illness (pretty much his only illness, for that matter) lasted only a few days. He was in the care of humans who took care of him, and knew when to let him go. It doesn't come close to say that he was loved. He gave me the basis of much of my understanding of what "love" meant. It's also insufficient to say that he'll be missed. My first sweetheart, my little boy.

Thank you for listening.