Loomis Re-visited
I suppose that I should start with a little background information, though I'm sure I've mentioned him somewhere in the dark ages of this blog. Loomis was my neighbor’s cat. He was old as dirt, and deaf as a post. He was skinny as a rail, and weighed next to nothing. He was very skittish, and unwary of new faces, but he took to me right away. He loved getting ear-scratchies from me. For whatever reason, he adopted me. Literally. You hear that all the time in regards to cats, but this couldn’t be truer. Even though he “lived” next door, and even though I didn’t feed him, he preferred to hang out on my porch. He would wait in the middle of the driveway for me to get home at night. I'd pull in and stop and wait, while he would get up from where he was lying, and pad softly to the porch. He decided that my porch was his home, and I was his “master”.
One day Loomis started making a ruckus. He had a rather loud voice, and used it well to get my attention. He started yowling at all hours of day and night. I was wondering what was wrong with him, and thought that I might want to speak with my neighbors, when I noticed that they’d moved. One day they were there, the next they were gone. And they'd left Loomis. He was yowling because his source of food had dried up, and he knew I was the one who should be feeding him anyway, so I started feeding him. Suddenly, Loomis was truly mine. Well, as "mine" as a cat like Loomis could get. He was a cat that made his own way in life.
I’d never let him in the house, as he’d been an outdoor cat all his life, and my other two were strictly the indoor variety. There was no telling what interesting kitty diseases Loomis might introduce…. Yet, still, he was my cat. Well, he was my “half cat”. When people learned I had cats, and would ask how many, I’d reply two and a half. No one truly owned a cat like Loomis. Not fully. Not all of him.
Even though he was old (he was 16 when the neighbors moved in, and stayed with me for about 6 years) and stone deaf, he was still a great hunter. He would, on occasion, leave me little bird trophies on the doorstep. A gift, if you will. And he was a scrapper. He couldn’t have weighed more than 5 pounds, but he was the toughest cat in the neighborhood.
Toward his latter days, all he did was, mostly, sleep. He no longer met me in the driveway. I no longer got a share of his spoils, as kibble was all he could catch. Then, one day, he just disappeared. I called animal control, to see if he’d been picked up, but he hadn’t. He was just gone. The most likely explanation was that he’d crawled off somewhere, went to sleep the long sleep. I’d searched around the yard and likely neighborhood spots, but could not find his body.
That was a couple of years ago. Fade to present day.
Some able bodied friends came over, and brought their trucks, so we were able to clear out the porch. It had been the storage place for some former roommates. They’d left several pieces of large exercise equipment, including a Soloflex and an all-in-one machine. We had the manpower, and the vehicles to transfer the equipment to the exes new place, and were taking advantage of the timing.
Four of us grabbed the all-in-one (it was quite heavy) and lifted it onto the truck. Sheeps was supervising, and gasped in shock. Between the weights and the frame of the machine was a small skull and a bit of fur. She deduced right away that it had to be Loomis. We quickly got the bones out of her sight and disposed of them.
I felt miserable for a little while, knowing that he’d died back there, alone, even though I would have never found him without moving the machine, which was too heavy to move on my own. It then occurred to me that even though he died alone, he did it in a place where he felt safe and loved. He curled up in a place he was comfortable, went to sleep, and never woke up. He chose to die in the place he chose to live. He made his own way in life, and made his own way in death. I suppose that’s not such a bad way to go…
One day Loomis started making a ruckus. He had a rather loud voice, and used it well to get my attention. He started yowling at all hours of day and night. I was wondering what was wrong with him, and thought that I might want to speak with my neighbors, when I noticed that they’d moved. One day they were there, the next they were gone. And they'd left Loomis. He was yowling because his source of food had dried up, and he knew I was the one who should be feeding him anyway, so I started feeding him. Suddenly, Loomis was truly mine. Well, as "mine" as a cat like Loomis could get. He was a cat that made his own way in life.
I’d never let him in the house, as he’d been an outdoor cat all his life, and my other two were strictly the indoor variety. There was no telling what interesting kitty diseases Loomis might introduce…. Yet, still, he was my cat. Well, he was my “half cat”. When people learned I had cats, and would ask how many, I’d reply two and a half. No one truly owned a cat like Loomis. Not fully. Not all of him.
Even though he was old (he was 16 when the neighbors moved in, and stayed with me for about 6 years) and stone deaf, he was still a great hunter. He would, on occasion, leave me little bird trophies on the doorstep. A gift, if you will. And he was a scrapper. He couldn’t have weighed more than 5 pounds, but he was the toughest cat in the neighborhood.
Toward his latter days, all he did was, mostly, sleep. He no longer met me in the driveway. I no longer got a share of his spoils, as kibble was all he could catch. Then, one day, he just disappeared. I called animal control, to see if he’d been picked up, but he hadn’t. He was just gone. The most likely explanation was that he’d crawled off somewhere, went to sleep the long sleep. I’d searched around the yard and likely neighborhood spots, but could not find his body.
That was a couple of years ago. Fade to present day.
Some able bodied friends came over, and brought their trucks, so we were able to clear out the porch. It had been the storage place for some former roommates. They’d left several pieces of large exercise equipment, including a Soloflex and an all-in-one machine. We had the manpower, and the vehicles to transfer the equipment to the exes new place, and were taking advantage of the timing.
Four of us grabbed the all-in-one (it was quite heavy) and lifted it onto the truck. Sheeps was supervising, and gasped in shock. Between the weights and the frame of the machine was a small skull and a bit of fur. She deduced right away that it had to be Loomis. We quickly got the bones out of her sight and disposed of them.
I felt miserable for a little while, knowing that he’d died back there, alone, even though I would have never found him without moving the machine, which was too heavy to move on my own. It then occurred to me that even though he died alone, he did it in a place where he felt safe and loved. He curled up in a place he was comfortable, went to sleep, and never woke up. He chose to die in the place he chose to live. He made his own way in life, and made his own way in death. I suppose that’s not such a bad way to go…
posted by Turtle at 9:56 AM
2 Comments:
It may not be a flaming long boat, but it is the path of honor for such a cat. At least you know that he met the peaceful end of his own choosing. I was once adopted by a neighbor's cat. I let him in the house, he slept on my chest, and came and went as he chose. Caspar was the coolest cat I'd ever known. I fed him for the better part of a year. And when the neighbors moved, after totally ignoring him for months, they took him with them. You got the better end of that deal, my friend.
I loose a flaming bird trophy to the stars for Loomis....
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