Getting out of bed I hear him “mew” from downstairs, but it’s only the creaking trees. When I descend to pick up the paper outside, he’s not pacing like a lion cub behind the door, which is kept closed at night to keep him from waking me too early with unearthly “yowls” and “howls.” Now no reason to fix his breakfast food, fill water bowl, empty litterbox — a quiet house has become much too quiet.
And so it goes through the day. My gorgeous Georgie Porgie’s not by my side on the ottoman as I drink my coffee, read the sports and news, nor does Kitty Puss ask to be let out on the deck. He doesn’t appear after one of his many naps with tail curled around his paws — Pretty Kitty — nor do the “feline flop” dropping to one side demanding to be stroked. And I’m no longer alerted to unexpected sounds by my Bunny Boy’s perked-up ears.
When I arrive home King George greets me anxiously at the door from the garage, expecting to be fed even if he was an hour ago — Chow Hound. After meals there’s no cat to lick plates clean as a whistle. I won’t need to protect furniture or pick up fluff and hairballs. Will mice and chipmunks now venture in where none has come since Killer Kat came to town?
All these accustomed habits of his and mine are fresh in my mind and heart, but my Bestest Boy is gone. Hey there Georgie Guy! … you were the greatest! As dusk falls I hear a catbird and cry. This is what missing is. (Born Jan. 15 ’05 on Martin Luther King’s birthday and the day before mine. Died June 15, 2016).
David Fersh is a Charlemont resident.