Mr. Cat's Funeral

MR. CAT'S FUNERAL


by bartermn

10/15/98
Silver sat watching from the top of the nearest fencepost as I
dug the grave for his best buddy, Mister Cat. Silver had been
born a barn cat. His white coat with gray highlights made him special.
It didn't take long before he moved out of the barn and into our
cabin. Mister had taught him not to claw the furniture, how to use
a litter box, and other gentlemanly differences between living
in a barn versus a house.

I told Silver that the funeral was to be right after chores and
to bring an umbrella because it looked like rain. I said that all
his relatives were invited even though Mister hadn't gotten along
with any of the other tigers.

Mister Cat was given to Gin by a favorite niece on a Thanksgiving
day, eleven years ago. He was a huge Blue Himalayan. The
last time we weighed him he tipped the scales at twenty-eight pounds.
I could barely fit him into the burlap feed sack, a preferred burial
shroud that has worked for most of the animals in our pet cemetery.



The barn cats had all been given an extra helping of milk and
eggs. Their coats were shiny and full for an approaching winter.
As I lowered Mister into the ground Tiger-one, head barn cat,
approached the cemetery gate to pay her respects. Stripes, the
only male, rounded the chicken coop to watch from a distance. He is
jealous of the house cats. Whitey, another white tiger, and her
shadow I call Rat, the runt of the litter, sat together nearby
and licked their fur as it started to rain. Tiger-Too joined Silver
on the fence, both looking very sad.

All the barn cats disappeared when Jazz came strolling down from
the house. Older than Mister by three years, and the only other
long-hair, Jazz is a black Persian who puts up with Silver but
absolutely detests barn cats. Mister was like a son to her. She sat
at the gate while I gathered stones for the finishing touch on
the grave. I will build a wooden cross tomorrow to add to the
nine other markers in the small plot. I gathered my tools and put
them in the wheelbarrow in a downpour. Jazz followed me back
to the cabin where we dried off before curling up in my rocker
next to the woodstove to reflect on living and dieing on a small
patch of land called Sonrise.


 SONRISE