Nine Lives
August 2005, Framingham, Massachusetts
By Erica Ferencik
For weeks I’d been seeing signs around the neighborhood for lost cats. I thought of my black cat Sven, and how he’d survived everything: busy streets, countless moves, vicious dogs, getting locked in other people’s garages. I’d had him for 13 years and took his presence in my life for granted. He would never succumb to the coyotes who roamed our suburban streets. I was cocky about his nine lives, sure that he was only up to seven max.
One day, he didn’t come home for dinner. Right away I felt sick. He had his routine and you could set your clock by it. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. With tears in my eyes, I went around to all the neighbors: have you seen a sleek black cat, one ear, a little beat up …?
At home, our Siberian husky Sasha raised her ears every time I called for Sven. She would whimper, tracing tight circles on the linoleum, then sit, watching me, ears up.
After a week of calling for Sven, I went outside at dawn to get the paper. Sasha was loping up the walk, Sven’s dirt-caked body in her teeth. He had been killed by a coyote, but Sasha must have found him and buried him. Then unburied him to prove to me that he was dead.
We buried him one last time under a bed of wild catnip that he loved to sleep in on hot summer days.
Over the weeks that followed, I let myself remember him.
He was my own furry black heart. He was the prince of comfort, prince of the neighborhood.
I could still feel his weight, his perfect weight sleeping on my belly. How he stretched his arms out toward my neck like he would hug me if he could. I didn’t mind when he dug his nails in me. He could knead me to death, I didn’t care.
I would bury my face in his delicious fur that would tell me all about where he had been that day: what ferns or flowers or sweet grasses, or tar, or just deep black dirt. He’d have bugs and seeds and gnatty things in his fur that I’d pull out and roll in Kleenex before we fell asleep. So happy and tired. It’s impossible that he never said a word to me. He would tell me about his day and I about mine, and we were comforted.
I would wake and find him holding my finger, one paw curled around it.
I wished I had taken more pictures of him, or drawn him, his infinite, gorgeous cat shapes. Light green eyes drowsily saying hello.
He reminded me of the importance of routine, how calming and sane it was. His complex maneuvers around his dish. The ever more elaborate ballets around the kitchen island, chair, table.
He was part of my reading of books. He would curl up around them, as if their hard corners were comfortable, to be close to me. How many hours had we lain together, both unconscious, both with total trust in the other.
His swagger. How he looked like a panther, only a small, 10-pound one. His skinny little ass disappearing fearlessly into the woods. A few hours later, his face at the door.
The things he killed and brought back for me: birds, baby bunnies, a garden snake. It’s true, I loved a murderer.
Even in winter he would venture outside, his black form like a cat-shaped hole against sparkling white snow, stories taller than him. He would explore the shoveled parts and then scramble back, nose cold against the pane, and I would run to let him in and warm him in my arms.
The way he would show up in the epicenter of a room, or any strange place: on top of a pile of shoes, on a towel in the bathroom, on freshly folded laundry, curled on the warm VCR.
He and Sasha like bookends on the porch in the morning, the sun warming their hot fur before they came in for breakfast. Sven’s swagger coming in, like he didn’t really need to eat from a can, but since it was open….
After Sven’s death, I spent more time with Sasha. Longer walks, better meals. But for months she would circle the place Sven’s dish used to be, eventually lying down there with a little whimper. Then she’d look up at me, as if for some kind of answer.
Our new cat is white, fluffy, delicate. Completely different from Sven. He presses his tiny pink nose against the screen, reading the breeze. It’s all I can do to not open the door and let him out into the world: of sinewy grasses, soft moss, insects and wild things, all the things that are his right to enjoy, but this time, I can’t do it.
Sasha follows him around, snuffling him. He slashes out at her with but she isn’t bothered by it, only curls up by the fire and waits, watching, for him to join her there.
Erica Ferencik is a Boston-based novelist and humorist. Check her out at: www.wakeupandsmelltheblog.com.
Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, December 8th, 2006 | Email This PostThis entry was posted on Friday, December 8th, 2006 at 12:04 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
10 Responses to “Nine Lives”
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December 11th, 2006 at 8:38 am
Erica, this is a warm yet tearful tale of your precious pet. I like your descriptivness of Sven. I feel as if I too knew him after reading this. My family and I can relate to your sorrow. We had a minature Dachshund named Trex that we’d had for seven years , he was murdered and carried away by a large hawk right before us. But alas, a new pet can help us heal and relish the memories of the one passed. Enjoyed your story. KEN
December 14th, 2006 at 6:06 pm
Thanks for the great story. My cats come and go too. When we moved to our house one of ours disappeared for two months. But I can relate to that sick feeling in the stomach when they are not within the routine, as free spirited as cats are.
One of mine is right behind me now as I type. I think I’m going to give her a little cuddle now.
January 13th, 2007 at 12:39 pm
This brought me to tears. Only a fellow cat lover can feel the pain of losing them. I learned long ago that mine are safer indoors. They have window perches, bird feeders to watch & cat trees to climb & scratch on.
I am involved with a rescue group in our area and see all the sadness that comes with cats being abandoned or tossed out like so much garbage. We insist our adopters keep their new kitty indoors, there are just too many risks with the outdoors. The days of cats being safe outside are over. Good luck with you new kitty.
January 25th, 2007 at 10:19 pm
Erica,
How ironic I found your essay as we just lost our Izzy. He was a rescue kitty named after Hurricane Isadore. A beautiful stray, white with a flagpole tail and beautiful blue eyes. We found him in the woods as a kitten crying in the pouring rain. That was four years ago. He loved our woods, prowling around never venturing too far. Then this past Christmas Eve he too didn’t show up for his breakfast. Everyone kept telling me he would show but I knew his routine. With so many woods around I thought about the unthinkable and kept pushing it aside until I learned a neighbor had some pet geese mauled and his elder cat disappeared. Then right before New Years another neighbor spotted a coyote darting across the road in the wee hours of the morning. Last night around 2 a.m. I heard a scornful howl, the coyote was on the prowl. I too believe the days of cats roaming free are over.
February 9th, 2007 at 2:29 am
You have my greatest sympathy. I have had my BooKitty since he was 2 & 1/2 weeks old. A throw awy kitten found in a dumpster.
Contrary to the vets warning of “do not get attached, he won’t make it”, Boo will be 18 on Valentine’s Day.
I can’t imagine life without him, and I relate to what you said about taking our loved pets for granted.
On that note, I am going to go curl up with him, and take the camera to bed with us.
They most certainly are adorable in their sleeping “hugs” they give.
I am happy to hear you have more than one critter to care for. I should have adopted another before Boo became used to being an only child.
Again, my heartfelt empathy.
February 12th, 2007 at 11:20 am
Loved this essay! It reminded me of my own cat, Charlie. He has his routine, runs around the woods, comes in to eat, runs around the yard–the same ol\’ thing everyday–but one day he never came meowing at the screen—I waited and waited and waited –it seemed like an eternity. I stayed awake all night.
Next day, I got the kids up, called my parents and told them the situation –we all broke up around the neighborhood yelling for Charlie–pleading for him to come home. Finally, we gave up. I felt helpless–sick to my stomach. I said a prayer—suddenly I heard a faint meow–and there he was looking absolutely pathetic– like a homeless, unwashed, dirty faced tabby! We all grabbed him and loved him and wouldn\’t let go. I am so sorry about Sven–he was gorgeous!!
March 9th, 2007 at 7:00 pm
Your discription of Sven is so beautiful. You somehow captured the essence of CAT. Sven reminds me of my own kitty, Buddy Boy. He\’ s the reason that I am alive today. There was a time when I was so down and depressed, I didn\’t want to live any more. The only thing that held me here was Buddy. I loved him and still love him so very much that I knew I had to stay around to take care of him.
April 20th, 2007 at 10:38 am
Your story is just wonderful. I’m so sorry you lost Sven. I could not help but think of our cat Neo, who I think instinctively knew that I was sick when I first came home from the hospital and was my buddy in the apartment when I could not get around then. Thank you for sharing.
June 28th, 2007 at 10:49 am
I was looking online for info about ways to tell young children of the loss of a pet…..to a coyote. My two grandsons are about to be told that their wonderful cat, Ziggy, is dead. My son was upset and crying when telling me over the phone of the death. I’ve heard him cry maybe one other time.
YOur writing of the joys of life with your cat was wonderful to read. Thank you for that : )
July 1st, 2008 at 10:35 pm
when we are emotionally attached to a pet, we can help be so emotional about their loss. I can see that you really loved you lost pet as you have been able to articulate the many wonderful moments you shared with it.
Its the time spent with them that makes it memorable.