As far back as I can remember, I’ve had cats in my life. As a kid, there was “Old Lady” (a tortie and a fierce hunter), “Fluffy”, “Tigger”, “Bean” and more recently, “Macavity”, “Shadow”, “Lynx” and the catto de tutti catti “Doodlebug”.
Well, most of those cats are gone. We only had Lynx and Doodlebug, and now we only have Doodlebug.
Lynx came into our lives as a rescue (all of our cats have been rescues). He was outside as a youngling on a cold winter’s day, sitting in the driveway. Shadow, who at that time was an onlycat, was sitting in the window of our apartment, listening intently. When I started listening too, I heard a kitten yowling and went downstairs to see what was going on. There was Lynx (of course, at the time I didn’t have a name for him). He wasn’t afraid of me, a surprise, since most of the feral, or nearly-feral cats in the neighborhood would run for any reason or no reason at all.
We brought him in. That was almost 17 years ago. Last Friday night, he died suddenly. The lady at the vet’s said it was likely kidney failure, which is not uncommon in older cats. He hadn’t really been sick that we could tell.
Now it’s just Doodlebug, who has been wandering forlornly about the apartment, crying for his brother and poking into cabinets and drawers he’s never even looked at before, as if he thinks we’re hiding Lynx from him.
We’re going to miss you, buddy.