Black cat at night. He moves with the stealth of a master predator, one painted with the color of darkness that makes him invisible after the sun falls below the horizon.
Yet something sees him, something large and traveling in a pack, something powerful and hungry.
The cat slinks across grass wet with dew, his movement silent, his steps meticulously planned and executed.
And still the coyotes look on, watch closely, coordinate their attack with whispers and glances few could notice.
Sans warning, a blur of dark coats move with suddenness that ensnares the feline in a trap, encircles him with fangs bared, surrounds him with snarls and growls.
There is nowhere to run. Still he tries.
Then it’s done. Held in the mouth of a canine, his skull and neck pierced, his jaw dislocated, the cat fights back with all the means at his disposal.
Claws stab the coyote’s face from all sides, blades kicking and scratching with a fierceness the large animal had not anticipated, could not foresee.
In a stroke of luck, pain overcomes the hunting instinct and the powerful jaws relax just enough for the cat to escape, to flee, to run up the nearest arboreal refuge where coyotes cannot follow.
But the damage is done…
Fiction? Perhaps, at least to a small degree, although not entirely.
A fractured skull. A jaw that doesn’t quite fit together. A hairless scar above the shoulders. A mind separated from body when it matters most. And sometimes when it doesn’t matter at all.
al-Zill fights every moment in often feeble attempts to will his form into submission.
More often than not, he asks for that which his frame cannot provide. Chasing his tail means smacking his head against the wall or falling off furniture. Walking across the room can be successful…or not. Even standing can prove difficult: he falls sometimes. Not just falls, though. Collapses.
Entwined with the innocence and mischief of youth, he gets up and keeps going. His purr never wavers. His ebullience never wanes. And his spirit never gives up.
I see the battle in his face, at least from time to time.
Mostly I see an indomitable feline making the most of his life irrespective of the setbacks and failures.
I had yet to migrate these photos of Larenti from my old photoblog, xenogere unseen. Now is as appropriate a time as any.
A home with some of the children gone. That’s how it feels. I keep stepping over him when he’s not there, hearing his voice when it doesn’t exist, feeling his fur under my fingers as I drift off to sleep. Fantasies of a wounded heart.
Time’s altar is a fierce place to exist. It takes at will, sacrifices on whims we cannot understand. It rests stained with the blood of all who have been lost.
He nuzzles my hand, reaches out and grabs it with his paw to let me know I’m not done petting him. He says as much as he looks at me directly and lets me lose myself in that jeweled, peridot universe defined by his eyes.
Or at least it seems to me, but in truth that was last week. Now only his memory remains.
I know not when these days began, though I know when they ended.
I sit on the couch and wait. I will wait forever for that which is expected: Larenti rushing to my side, leaping atop the cushions to join me. From anywhere in the house, he always knew when I sat down there, and he would always run to the living room and jump up to take his place on my lap or by my side.
But no more.
The rest of The Kids still share the couch with me at every opportunity, and they vie for my lap and to get somehow in contact with me as Larenti always did, yet the absence remains unbearable, a blade cutting deep with every moment.
I lie on the floor next to the bed and look up as I await his usual reaction. Await is all I can do now, for Larenti’s face will never greet me by peering over the edge of the blankets with a half-questioning, half-delighted visage painted with beautiful earthen hues. He enjoyed quality time along with the other cats, yet he never seemed sure about this particular game. I always loved his curiosity in response to my being on the floor beneath him; equally, I loved that he knew it would always lead to blizzards of love between us.
Yet his face will never again peek over the edge of the bed.
The rest of The Kids still engage in Quality Time with the utmost interest and joy, and they try their best to sweep away the loss with kisses, touches, purring, play, and all manner of passion, though the emptiness they seek to fill is not theirs to fill.
I awake and climb from beneath the covers anticipating the morning ritual. Anticipate is now all that will happen, for Larenti’s voice will not fill the dark room with greetings and requests for affection, his form will not sit on the edge of the bed as I kneel next to it and shower him with soft words and petting, and his formidable purr will no longer bring joy to my heart as he demonstrates his love and contentment.
The morning ritual is forever changed.
The rest of The Kids remain steadfast in taking and receiving adoration in those early morning hours just as they have always done, yet a vacuous chasm now exists that can never be bridged.
I grab the cat food or treats, and then I look and listen as the horde descends upon me with much meowing and jockeying for position, although now that one face in the background will never offer up the plaintive cries that always made me remember the skittish one who would stay back, stay out of the fray, but who nonetheless joined the restless herd in pretending they were all starving to death. While I never let the food bowl grow empty, the sound of the bag meant tripping over cats eager to get something fresher than yesterday’s offerings, and tapping on the top of a can of treats or shaking a bag of treats would bring them all running. Larenti stayed out of the commotion as much as possible, always lagged behind while still showing the same devotion to goodies—or even just a refill of the bowl. His eyes wide as he watched me closely, he would offer up his sorrowful yet beguiling voice as part of the feline chorus that defined such times. Only now his face will be missing, his voice silent, his stunning and wide eyes only a memory of what was.
Food and treat time now bears a fresh scar that will never fully heal.
The rest of The Kids continue creating loud, boisterous obstacles under my feet whenever they hear the food bag or treat containers; however, I keep wishing for that seventh song and hoping for a sighting of the lion, neither of which will ever caress my soul again.
I grab the camera as afternoon sun fills the bedroom with warm light and pools of sunshine where The Kids gather. I will never have another chance to see how such moments brought out the stunning colors and contrasts in Larenti’s face. His large green eyes would catch the light like diamonds even has his beige tabby coat glowed like a fire on the beach. His beauty was undeniable, yet at such moments it became a cause for celebration that the universe itself could not ignore. I loved to feel his gaze resting upon me, his eyes devouring in great sweeps all that could be seen, his jovial spirit spilling from them when finally they touched me directly.
Only now the camera will never capture his magic again.
The rest of The Kids still offer their magnificence when the light is just right, still congregate in the bedroom where a wall of glass proffers afternoon pools of sunshine where they can bathe and nap and gather the warmth unto their bosoms; the pain of one missing, however, screams like an unhealing wound.
Larenti: November 2002 – March 2009
Too young.
Too soon.
Too horrible to face.
Larenti died tonight.
Maybe a brain tumor. Maybe something else.
We just don’t know.
What goes without question is this: He began having seizures late in the evening. Rushed to the emergency vet, his condition worsened—and it did so rapidly.
No matter the treatment offered, he stumbled down the pathway toward end.
And finally he reached his destination.
I haven’t the will or interest in saying more, at least not now.
The most recent photos of him I’ll share soon.
And stories.
And thoughts.
But for now, I plan on weeping my heart upon the altar of time that so readily takes.
