I think of him most often at night or in the early morning when he is missing from our bed, and also when I'm home in the daytime by myself. My friend, my company, is gone.
His death came almost exactly a year after we lost him once, when somehow he got trapped in a nearby abandoned house. When we rescued him that time, we were elated. We were also determined to keep him closer -- inside -- where he would be safe from, well, everything.
But Garfield's life indoors was not happy. He paced at the doors, and raced to them when he heard keys clinking. He was young, quick, agile and, it turned out, even more determined to get out than we were to keep him in.
Before too long, we got over our sadness of his being lost and forgot our relief over his being found. Then one day he shot past us into the yard, and we were OK with it.
We enjoyed him out there. He climbed the playset, watched soccer from the sidelines, inserted himself into the middle of Frisbee games. Beyond the yard, he followed the kids to the bus stop and visited favorite houses. He made friends with people and cats and delighted in aggravating the idiot dogs behind the fence next door.
He was never far away. If he heard our voices outside, he would appear from under a hosta plant or the garden, and we would hear his jingle-bell collar tinkle as he ran, his loose, orange and white belly swinging, to greet us.
He would run across the yard, and he might pant and flop at our feet upon arrival. "Garfield is a little more cat than he should be," the vet told me during his last visit.
That was polite. I'll call him "sturdy," and his absence weighs on me.
Tonight, I picked up Garfield's ashes from the veterinarian. We made the expensive decision to get them with tears and snot still running down our faces. Now I'm not sure why we need them, and they are hard to explain to the children. Upsetting, even. Do we really need this physical reminder?
In the past two weeks, the hurt has numbed, and we have carried on. The kids have asked for a new cat, and they have even picked out a name. I can sometimes drive by the careless neighbor's house without thinking, "What a shithead."
Then I realize I drove right by without thinking that, and I think it, anyway.
So, the ashes in the pretty pink and green tin. Yes, a reminder is good. Of the smiles and snuggles he gave us and the kindness and softness we showed him. He brought out the best in us, and we must try to keep it up.
Garfield, you are missed. In the spring, we will plant catnip in the garden and remember. And wish you were here.
