ODE TO LOUIS

 

TO LOUIS, EVER THE MYSTERY...

Leaves shuffled that day as you slinked out of the bushes and walked across my legs

while I sat on the front steps.

You paraded back and forth across my lap, winding around my body – friendly.

I marveled at your majesty.

Where did you come from? Surely you must be someone's pet.

An enormous Maine coon cat. Stray?

Months passed with the same scenario, but growing ever more closer.

But still you would not come inside.

When I arrived back from errands, you would be there waiting.

I picked you up, you blinked and sniffed the wind.

I held you tight so I could feel our hearts beating as one.

You looked happy doing that. It became our thing.

Sunning in my lap on the porch, playing with a string toy, rolling around in the driveway.

Trading my lap for Pete's for some dude bonding.

You became a friend to Kristina when she really needed one.

Then I finally carried you inside.

No dice. You were obviously not comfortable in a house.

The overhead fan alone petrified you.

Months, a year, and finally you decided you could take long naps inside.

Usually on the table.

But never all night, except for those few occasions

when you woke us at 3 am to return to the wild.

That snowy Christmas, when you were standing on your hind legs at the window

meowing to come inside and join us.

A few years of coming and going to parts unknown.

Sometimes for weeks. Where did you roam?

We took you to the vet for a rabies shot after Facebook sightings.

Wanted to keep you inside! Ordered a tracker.

New people and construction last summer disrupted your territory.

You disappeared for at least six weeks.

We were so relieved when you returned! And groomed!

But something had changed.

You were anxious, jittery, not as affectionate.

Had there been a trauma? An escape from another place?

We will never know. Your health started to deteriorate.

FIV positive, kidney disease, bad teeth.

Yet you still refused to live indoors.

We tried.

Then the day you arrived in obvious bad health.

Vet, blood work off the chart. Bite wounds.

A week of trying to help you. Subcutaneous fluids. Antibiotics. Compresses.

It didn't work.

The end came slowly and painfully as you tried to hang on.

Still barely alive. For five mornings.

Jan. 11, 2021. Euthanasia, that awful word.

You even resisted the last injection.

Tough until the end, refusing to die.

Then you passed.

Tears, a candle, many condolences from folks you never met.

Maybe you will solve the mystery when we meet again.