Yesterday evening our little kitten Sylvester passed away. He had been sick for about a month. Doing nothing but sleeping across Thomasina whenever possible. Maybe he needed her body heat. Maybe she needed his. We wanted to try to feed him baby food, but as soon as we picked him up and wrapped him in a soft towel he meowed and went limp. I saw his eyes widen, trying to catch another breath. "he’s dead," my mom said. "Is he really?" was my only response. Back and forth saying the same thing…he moved once again. All hope was lost. Our little ball of love was gone!
Sylvester was the little hobo that walked into my father’s garage looking for food. He made a handicapped man go to the store and buy food and put out a water dish. Of course dad isn’t the type to be taken by anyone, not even a cat. Sylvester walked into a trap! He and his sibling were caught. Dad’s intentions were to take them to the pound, but then their eyes won him over. They were these little creatures, afraid, shaking, alone, and hungry. That was it. They found home!
We went out to Stockton to pick up the little kitten, Dad kept the sibling. Unfortunately his little kitty passed a few days later. We found out when my dad sobbed over the phone.
For two days Sylvester stayed hidden under the china cabinet. The little rascal was hard to catch. After two days of struggling to get him to come out, he did. He hid in a kitchen drawer. Of course it had to be the one with the dinner linens, pressed and all. He eventually came out and gave the other cats a run for their money. He wanted to sleep and suckle all of them. Booboo, our fabulous male cat thought that was a little too weird for him so as soon as Sylvester would come out he would run to the guest room and hide.
Our little dear fit the Sylvester description to a T. He was a soft furry black cat with white paws and a little snowy patch on his chest. I never did take a photo of him peering inside the canary cage, but he did do that…often. He once even jumped up to the toilet, not knowing there was a lake inside. He jumped in. Then he jumped right out.
Mornings were interesting. You never knew where he would be when you woke up. If you slept on your belly chances were great you’d wake up with a cat asleep on your bum. If you watched TV, he would conveniently find his way to your chest and fall asleep there. If you didn’t make your bed fast enough, that was it…you’d have to make it later on in the day because he would nest under the blankets. How can you kick a little, poor, defenseless cat from his little den? You can’t. All cats would be on the bed. You could try and move them but they would all somehow become one with the bed. They’d slide off like water and puddle on the floor.
Sylvester’s life and death taught me much. I came to realize how much love means, and how much it hurts. He, like an infant, a child, couldn’t tell us what he was feeling. His comunication was tactile and visible, caressing your face in the morning to let you know it was time to get up and then walking to the refridgerator and telling you with his eyes that the left overs from last night’s tuna can would do for breakfast as well.
We cried! Each one of us. My daughter went down to the garage to offer a prayer for him. I guess school is teaching her more than I thought. There is so much that we receive, so much that we can offer. Take love. Give it. The supply is endless. I just have to remember that it is there.
Tout ce que j’ai aimé. -Quasimodo, Notre Dame
