Last week wasn't the best of weeks, that is for sure. I got nailed with the triple threat of shitty happenings. The Xbox stopped working out of nowhere, my five year old hastily assembled yet impossibly reliable beast of a PC crashed and my cat died. Yes, Coppertoes, my furry little best friend is gone. I could not care less about the console and the computer b/c they are fixable (and have since been) but Coppertoes is not coming back. Ever. I realized this after the third day went by and he was still missing. If he goes out at night he usually always comes back before bed time, and if he does happen to stay out all night (which he does on occasion), he is always back first thing in the morning (10 am at the latest)- especially if it is cold out, which it was the night he left and those after. I searched everywhere for him for three straight days. In and out of the alleys, up and down the roads, and everywhere around the vicinity of my house and the yards around me - that of which I could see. Nothing. I saw nothing, heard nothing and found nothing. No dead orange cats, injured orange cats or lost orange cats trying to find their way back to their safe, warm, happy home. My little cute and cuddly buddy seemed to have vanished before my eyes, and there was nothing I could do about it. After the third full day of him missing I was emotionally coming to the realization that I might not ever see him again, but physically and mentally I was not so sure. Every little noise, scratch, tick and creak I heard I thought was him, pawing at the window or meowing to be let back in. But it never was. It was always the clock. A car. Or maybe just my mind. I must have looked out of the window and opened the front door one thousand, maybe two thousand times in three days, each time less and less expecting him to be sitting there on top of the chair, like he always was - but wishing deeply that he were. I even searched the basement relentlessly, though I knew he wasn't down there. But, where could he have gone? I began crafting unreasonable and impossible scenarios about what could have happened. Was he trapped somewhere? On a roof or in an abandoned car or house? Was he lost? Or was he just out partying with his buddies? Did someone happen to take in a smiling and pudgy three and a half year old orange male cat with one black whisker and a little heart birth mark on his lower tummy? Maybe. But doubtful. Extremely doubtful. Upon conjuring this last hopeless and desperate angle as to his whereabouts I began peering suspiciously into people's front windows, in hopes of finding him that way. Nope. No matching silhouettes. Deep in my gut of reasonable but pessimistic thinking I knew that something was wrong. We have after all, been roommates for the last three years(give or take a day here or there and those two and a half months two summers ago when I lived in Kingsville and he lived with Jenne) - and it was not like him to be out so long. The cat came back the very next day, not three days later. It was as if he had never existed but in my imagination. Poof. Gone. Then the fourth day came around. I woke up from my side ways sleeping position (b/c Coppertoes always slept at the foot of the left side of the bed)and went to the second floor front window, something I had been doing constantly so as to get an up top overall aerial view of the street. I looked out and there he was. Across the street under the big trees peacefully laying among some leaves - dead. I knew he was. In a flash I was down the stairs and looking over him and I could tell that he had been hit by a vehicle. I grabbed him, went back across the street and laid him gently down on the side of my yard. He was stiff and must have been dead for a while. How did I not see him earlier?! It was impossible for me not to have. He was right there, in front of me! Not knowing what to do next I ran into the house and tears instantly shot out of my face and eyes - suppressed feelings emerging after days of denial. I quickly gained my composure and instantly realized not only that I didn't have a shovel to bury him with but, all I had lost and would never have again. Never again would Coppertoes lay across my chest and nap with me, eyes closed, his body twisting and contorting in indescribable comfort and content. Mine too. My special whistle, the one which Coppertoes always responded to in anticipation of a treat or a friend is now useless. I will never whistle like that again. I will never pet, play fight, feed, spook, or rub Coppertoes' soft little belly. I swear he had the softest fur ever. No longer will I cut his nails (which was at times, a harrowing experience) or scratch his little nose (he loved that, and even pressed his head into my hand if he hadn't got enough). When I wake up my little buddy will not be waiting for me to get out bed and then proceed to follow me step for step downstairs, trying to trip me along the way - but not on purpose. If I drop a piece of paper, a pen or a beer cap on the floor it will stay there, untouched where it lay until I pick it up. I won't ever have to clean up piss, poo, fur or hair balls (other than my own), though I would happily if I still could. No more will Coppertoes be waiting for me as I open the front door or scamper quickly down the stairs to welcome me home. When I sit outside on the porch, he won't be watching me intently from the front window, loyally standing guard or mostly just jealous of my ability to open doors and go outside. I won't be baffled by his uncanny ability to pass out anywhere in any position or in any place no matter how weird or uncomfortable it looks (eg. under, in and on top of anything). When I'm laying in bed, delaying entering the day, I can no longer fool Coppertoes into collapsing alongside me into my outstretched arm, just by simply stretching out my arm. He will never be able to play bite me again. Even though he bit hard, he never hurt me. I won't almost step on him at the top of the stairs or when I get out of bed in the dark. There will be no more races up the stairs, ending in me grabbing him and tossing him playfully on the bed. He never beat me. I won't be woken by him in the middle of the night doing whatever it is cats do in the middle of the night. He will never again be able to sprawl out gloriously and without concern as he soaks in what ever sun he can find. We won't be able to hang out again and talk. Just kidding. We didn't talk much, but he did give me some pretty good advice sometimes. And he won't meow for me to let him in. Because he won't be coming back again. If only he had stayed inside. Sleeping lazily on the top of the couch instead of pouncing happily into a fun and fresh aired fantasy world of friends, frolicking and fascination. After all, I did take him in off the streets and never has a cat loved going out as much as Coppertoes did. He went out often in the three years we knew each other. Eating grass, chasing squirrels, digging dirt, getting into the odd scrap with the neighbourhood homeless bullies, whatever it was he enjoyed the outdoors - so who am I to disallow such deserved freedom? He did always come back, after all. But the street on which I live is a very busy one. Much busier than Janette. The only other street he's ever known. I always told him to be careful whenever he went out, because cars, buses, joggers and motorized bicycles fly by - sometimes at tremendous speeds, without much braking and very close to the curb, may I add. I'm not blaming anybody. Especially the joggers. But he did get run over by something. And how did I not notice him before the fourth day? Did someone move him after he died? Was he hidden among the leaves? No. Weird. At least it looked as if it was quick and probably painless. Even in death, he seemed to be smiling and happy. What a guy! Coppertoes was a great cat and even better pal, one who lived a shortened but extremely happy and comfortable life. Life with a roof, food, friends and someone who would clean up his shit. I'll miss him greatly as I'm sure will anyone who had the opportunity to hang out and chat, I mean chill with such a cool cat.
