Every Little Thing

Is Gonna Be All Right

Soon after I moved into my current little rural apartment, about five and a half years ago, I met Bob Marley — a brown-and-black tabby cat with a white belly and white paws and initially unnerving golden eyes. His age when I arrived was not precisely known, but he was young enough to leap from my little porch onto one of it's narrow railings and then up onto the building's pitched roof, which he would nimbly climb then sometimes perch on its peak and, I imagined, survey his woods-and-farmland-filled kingdom.

A clipped ear gave away a previously feral existence, and in general he seemed to prefer the outdoor life, though in the winter he would often spend evening and weekend hours basking in front of my propane stove. I never considered him "my" cat, but I did regard him as a friend. A dear friend, as my stepmom would say when she could no longer remember my name, or perhaps the original nature of our relationship. I think he considered me his friend too, if the dead bird he once left outside my door is any indication.

A few weekends ago, on a Saturday, Bob Marley (whose auspicious name was gifted to him by my landlords) seemed not to be feeling his best. It wasn't the first time he'd been lethargic and a little tremorous on a hot summer day. He had bounced back numerous times from one ailment or another — spending his nine lives?

The next morning, I noticed that his fur was not groomed as scrupulously as usual. I spent some time brushing his back and sides, which he seemed to like. Later, in the afternoon, I found him in his own garage "apartment," resting in his well-worn bed. He meowed several times when he saw me but didn't get up, until I set a small bowl of fresh water and a treat next to him. He didn't lack appetite. I checked in on him again before leaving to go to a family gathering. He was finishing his treat and seemed content.

I got home late that night. He didn't greet me as he usually, but not always, did. I didn't always see him when I left for work, and that's how it was that Monday morning. When I returned home on Monday evening, once again he didn't appear. I ask my landlords if they had seen him and they said he hadn't been around all day.

And that's the way it has been ever since.

Did he take himself to a private place in which to leave his weary body behind? Or will he "just show up" one day, healed and whole?

It's not the first time I've not gotten to say a proper good-bye to someone I love.

A few days ago I received some unanticipated comfort when I turned to YouTube for distraction from thinking about him. This video offered itself to me:

Thank you, feline Bob Marley, for the surprise you were and all the moments of unconditional love you gave to me to remember.

Always,
Alice