All Cats Go To Heaven

I buried my cat yesterday. She had been missing for over two weeks. A small tiger with too short legs, that made her run look like a hop. I take blame for her death. My son had admonished me for feeding the cats in the woods. It is against the law in Chicago, where he lives, to feed your animals outside.  There is an  increasing coyote population. I had grown comfortable feeding my not so feral cats, even at night. I would see them playing in the grass chasing leaves, stalking each other, lounging in the grass. They would run to their bowls when I walked outside. I answered their crying and zig- zagging in front of me by filling their bowls with brick colored food.


I had lost earlier woods cats gone from their base by the crooked tree. Neighbor cats disappeared into the swamp never to return. Sadly I would call them, a hollow voice into the brush. This cat commune began when my husband was using a chain saw to cut up a fallen tree on the edge of the yard and three kittens popped their heads out. It was he who fed them first. Later he would curse this decision to tell me about the kittens in the tree.  Two would survive. Their mother and pseudo-father Rambo vanished in the cold of winter. Trilly Lilly, a sweet calico and Buster, her orange-tiger brother grew strong, content in the woods. Trilly would brush up against me slowly  letting me pet and  then  pick her up where she would lay her head on my shoulder. Buster remained aloof not trusting my touch. Trilly became pregnant, an unfortunate consequence from my negligent procrastination
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She had two kittens, a small female tiger, Twilight that looked like her grandmother and Punkin an orange and white male. She proudly presented them inviting me to pet and protect them.  Twilight like her uncle was unsure of humans, but Punkin loved being petted and held. 

 My mission was to have them spayed and neutered before more kittens emerged from the tree.  I wanted no gifts for birthday or any occasion that year, just help with my fertile cats. I made an appointment and after being clawed and scratched trapped Punkin  in a cat carrier. I put him upstairs with litter and food, unable to catch the others I had Punkin fixed as a feral and with more cats I was given a group rate. Four days later with barbwire scratches decorating my arms Twilight and Trilly were captured. Twilight was crazed, climbing the walls, digging herself in the bowels of the mattress, while howling an unearthly wail. 


 I had found homes for the kittens after their surgery, but after seeing my raw skin combined with their unknown credentials, their perspective owner hurriedly said "No thank you. "I released them outdoors two weeks later. Trilly and Punkin had become accustomed to laying on the bed, but not Twilight, she glared at me as she skulked across the floor on her little legs.A friend asked to adopt Trilly and though sad I rejoiced that she would have a home. 

After her mother left Twilight began to seek me out, to be petted and picked up, laying her soft head on my shoulder melting into my arms.  Twilight became my outdoor companion following me everywhere as Punkin began to roam the woods like Uncle Buster. My husband built a house for them tightly insulated with wool floor and walls, in the blizzards of winter they stayed warm and safe. Spring began with Buster returning mauled and beaten I was unable to catch him to have him treated. He would sleep in the cat house isolated from the elements. He seemed to be healing from his traumatic injuries. (He has not come home)

           Twilight did not come to breakfast one morning. She returned at night. I was so relieved to see her, but before I could pick her up I noticed her fur seemed detached from her back in a strip and she was limping. She ran back into the woods. I was in a hurry.  I would find her later and bring her into the house and see what had happened to my sweet Twilight.

            I never had that chance I did not see Twilight alive again.  I searched everyday calling and crying into the swamp. Two and a half weeks later with the death smell in the wind I found her badly decomposed body under a tree, down the hill, an empty can of Fancy Feast close by. It was far from where she was fed. Had someone poisoned her?  Her fur and feet were all I could identify. I am not a forensics scientist, but I have seen many dead cats, none with so little form I could only envision a horrifying death. I condemned her to this violent evisceration, with my earnest but ignorant interference. I try to wrap her in an old red sweater, but it is difficult.  I think of people who die and are not found until much later, the boy in the attic in the heat of summer. Carrion beetles fall from the shovel. I get a box and use my secret power of blocking reality.


I dig a deep hole near where I cared for her next to the small unpainted statue of a sleeping cat. She is buried with Pizza, Stimpy, beloved cats that lived long indoors lives and the unknown cat I found hit by a car. I place heavy rocks on top to make it difficult for the grave diggers of the wild. I plant petunias near the silent cat and say a prayer of thanks for knowing and loving this gentle cat. I pray for forgiveness.

            I am overwhelmed with the grief, of loss, of guilt, of time, of cruel randomness. Deep feral sobs assault me covering me in a montage of, sweet cats, loyal dogs, supportive friends, heroic mother, protective father. I am seized with a desperate hope implanted from childhood Catholicism a heaven exists.

Never, forever to see the ones I love, is that the definition of Hell?