Misty

Yesterday, thinking of hawks, I was not saying everything. Who could possibly, ever, want to say everything? Who'd want to hear? Even the stoic cows would turn away. But here's the story.

Yesterday was one of those perfect June days, clear, blue sky so deep it felt possible to sail right up into it, greens so lush and glistening, flowers in bloom, everything covered in sunshine gold, humidity down, temperature so perfectly moderated I opened all the windows and doors. I went outdoors, and all the cats, too, went out. Including Mr. Misty.

Misty came to us in the spring of 1993, a bedraggled kitten rescued by my youngest son from a rock in the midst of Deer Creek in a rushing flood. We don't know if someone tried to drown him or if he was part of a litter too close to water's edge. Likely the former. But we don't know. He was carried to this house, a little cat in the cradle formed when a young boy turned up the hem of his t-shirt for that purpose.

Misty was perfectly gray. He could have been judged to be purebred Russian Blue except that his pads were not perfectly, evenly gray. He was handsome from the start, and he grew into his promised elegance. If ever there was a marvelous cat, it was Misty.

When he came to live with us, I had not yet acquiesced to the notion of indoor cats. They were allowed to visit indoors, but not to live indoors full time. But Misty and his boy changed that. If ever two loved one another, those two did. Misty became almost puppy like in his devotion, and his affections were fully returned.

Misty was, then, an indoors-outdoors cat. He grew lean and tall, a powerful hunter, sharp-eyed and quick. He was so tall he could stand with hind paws on the kitchen floor and put his front paws on the edge of the kitchen counter. Once he was sitting on the floor beside me while I was peeling potatoes and a peeling fell. Misty saw and caught it before it hit the floor. In this country house, we had no mouse problem for the sixteen years or so when he was on patrol.

When he was about a year and a half old he went out into an ice storm. He may have gone to the road and been hit by a car, or he may have fallen when he tried to jump from the deck to a porch roof that allowed him to look into the window of the room where we were watching tv. Looking in that window was his signal that he was ready to come in.

Whatever happened, he dragged himself to the door with a broken hip and tail. Vetted, he healed, except his tail had nerve damage, and the end half of it was numb. He figured out how to carry his injury and retain his catly dignity.

As he aged, though, he began to develop arthritis. He slowed down. Then, not quite two years ago, he started to go blind, and it didn't take long until he was completely blind. He found his way about anyway. He found food and the litter box, he found an open door, found his way out and back in again. He found his people, whenever there was a lap that he wanted. He was a calm creature, and he liked to be close.

He still often found his way outdoors, took a little stroll at his leisure, and found his way back in again. I, who love the outdoors so much, could not find the heart to restrain him from his old pleasure in his familiar, life-long home place.

Yesterday he did not come back.

As the perfect-weather day wore on, I walked and walked the woods, followed all the deer trails in ever widening circles, called and called. No voice answered, no gray elegance appeared. The woods was quiet, no crows or hawks circling. There are foxes who visit regularly, though.

Misty was to the point at which his life was becoming a burden to him. Sometimes, recently, he lay on the carpet in the living room of an afternoon and just cried. It was time. And for him to go outdoors into a golden, sun stroked morning and find his ending there is better than any other alternative I can think of. Perhaps Misty has turned into a fox.

Misty was baby and brother, a vibrant and specific personality, beloved family member. He is sorely missed, and we presently weep for him while we also remember his amazing, specific ways of being in his years of life. He will not be forgotten anytime soon.

Farewell, Misty.