Goodbye, Dickens

"What greater gift than the love of a cat?" – Charles Dickens

Has it really been 365 sunrises and sunsets? I can't believe it's been one year without you. It seems like only yesterday you were washing your sister's head, gifting us leaves from the cat pen, doing the downward dog yoga pose and eating. And eating. And eating.

You didn't really "eat," though, did you? That verb doesn't do the act justice. You attacked your food, worried it would be taken from you at a moment's notice. When you finished — usually in the time it takes a NASCAR pit crew to change a tire — you approached your sister, Willow, who was eating from a nearby bowl. If one of the humans didn't do sentry duty, you'd nudge her out of the way. You loved Willow, but this was the one behavioral tic that ticked us off. Your desire to eat, it seems, was larger than anything save our love for you.

You desired tea, too. Well, maybe not tea, but tea bag packets. When Mom made a cup, which she did often, you'd hop on the bar stool at the kitchen counter, waiting for her to open the tea bag, crumple the packet it came in and toss it. You'd scamper after it, batting it around the house. A basket full of cat toys? Pfft. You liked tea bag packets and green Velcro ties (more on that in a second). Go figure.

What you did not like were lilac reed diffusers! Do you remember, when you were a kitten, knocking a reed diffuser (an aromatherapy device with a popularity that mystifies me) from a shelf above the toilet? The reeds, which wick scented diffuser oil and release it into the air, scattered onto the linoleum floor, but most of the oil emptied directly onto your furry little body. You reeked of lilac. The flowery stench was so strong, in fact, that Willow refused to go anywhere near you. She hissed whenever you approached. Heck, you tried to escape your own scent — an impossible task. I'd describe you as a walking, odor-emitting love child of a botanical garden and a Yankee Candle store. The aroma lingered for weeks. 

The memory will linger much longer, as will the one involving the rolled-up green Velcro ties used for produce bags at our local supermarket. You proudly carried them in your mouth, strutting around the house. To this day, I don't know how you always knew when one was being used in the kitchen. But you did. And you'd jump on the stool, eye the tie and brazenly leap onto the counter to pilfer one.

You stole Velcro ties and our hearts. How could we not love you and your fascination with bathroom faucets? If we turned on the water, you'd come, from wherever you were, and leap onto the sink. I could be in the upstairs bathroom while you were downstairs, but as soon as I turned on the water, you bolted up the stairs, into the bathroom and onto the sink in seconds. It must be a water thing, because on occasion you'd hop onto the ledge of the tub during my shower, I wouldn't mind a shower partner from time to time, but that wasn't what I had in mind!

Mom, a big fan of A Christmas Carol, named you after its author. Appropriate name, it turns out, because you were indeed a little dickens. When lung fibrosis robbed us of your presence, it created a Dickensian bleak house, if you will. I was as bitter and unhappy as Scrooge, pre-redemption. You decreased the surplus population, and it crushed me. I miss you, Dickens.

My heart still hurts, 365 sunrises and sunsets later, but I will forever be happy in the cat-filled life I have chosen.

Love,
Owen