Erica Ferencik's Blog - Posts Tagged "animals"
Life Without Charlie
For weeks I’d been seeing signs around the neighborhood for lost cats. I thought of my black cat Charlie, and how he’d survived everything: busy streets, countless moves, vicious dogs, getting locked in other people’s garages. I’d had him for thirteen years and took his presence 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 Charlie. She would whimper, tracing tight circles on the linoleum, then sit, watching me, ears up.
After a week of calling for Charlie, I went outside at dawn to get the paper. Sasha was loping up the walk, Charlie’s dirt-caked body in her teeth. He had been killed by a coyote, but Sasha must have found him and buried him. 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’d 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, ten pound one. His skinny little butt 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 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 DVD player.
He and Sasha like bookends on the porch in the morning, the sun warming their fur before they came in for breakfast. Charlie’s swagger coming in, like he didn’t really need to eat from a can, but since it was open...
After Charlie’s death, I spent more time with Sasha. Longer walks, better meals. But for months she would circle the place Charlie’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 Charlie. He presses his tiny pink nose against the screen, reading the breeze. I want to 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 but she isn’t bothered by it, only curls up by the fire and waits, watching, for him to join her there.
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 Charlie. She would whimper, tracing tight circles on the linoleum, then sit, watching me, ears up.
After a week of calling for Charlie, I went outside at dawn to get the paper. Sasha was loping up the walk, Charlie’s dirt-caked body in her teeth. He had been killed by a coyote, but Sasha must have found him and buried him. 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’d 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, ten pound one. His skinny little butt 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 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 DVD player.
He and Sasha like bookends on the porch in the morning, the sun warming their fur before they came in for breakfast. Charlie’s swagger coming in, like he didn’t really need to eat from a can, but since it was open...
After Charlie’s death, I spent more time with Sasha. Longer walks, better meals. But for months she would circle the place Charlie’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 Charlie. He presses his tiny pink nose against the screen, reading the breeze. I want to 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 but she isn’t bothered by it, only curls up by the fire and waits, watching, for him to join her there.
