In Memory of Little Yellow

Today I went to breakfast with three missed calls on my phone. After I ate, I walked back to my dorm and called my mom, who was leaving the messages. She told me that they found Little Yellow on the side of the road--he'd been hit by a car. We had moved to a smaller house twice as close to the road, with roads where cars drive twice as fast. He was twelve, he has seen many roads and cars. This time he wasn't quite fast enough to make it.

Little Yellow, or "Baby", as I affectionately called him, was my baby. He, and his sister, Little White, were added to our family when I turned six. We got them as kittens from a friend I had in kindergarten at Waterman Elementary. They lived inside with us in the duplex with our family. They were introduced, ironically, to Simba/Big Boy, who they were originally replacing because he was thought to have run away. He was found at the local SPCA, and readded to the family.

Little White was originally my kitten, and I named her this because she was the majority grey and had a "little white" on her stomach. Marie, who was the "owner" of Little Yellow, followed suit and named her small kitten "Little Yellow." Of course, they grew, and little Yellow was no longer so small. We considered ourselves similar in personalities to our cats. Little White was more quiet, as was I, but "cried" when given a shot, which I did as well. Little Yellow was more rambunchous, but made no sound when given his shots, as was Marie. There were several points in our elementary careers that we wanted to trade pets, and make each others' cats our own. I do not remember if we came up with a consensus, or if either cats were ours.

They moved with us to Bridgewater, in the white house with the large yard and the park next door. They relished in the space of the yard, catching moles, mice, birds, and even Baby got a rabbit one time (to Marie's horror). They shed every collar they were given, and slowly the fears of them being lost had vanished. They survived the make pretend of Marie and I, dressing them in doll clothes, and enclosed under laundry baskets. They slept on our beds, in our windows, on our piles of clean laundry, on our laps, with me in my bed.

As the years went on, I matured, meaning I did not dress the cats in doll clothes anymore. The cats gained a few pounds as well, and our relationships became less like civil aquaintances and more like friends. My kitty and I would sleep together and snuggle. He would purr in my arms and come when I called, "Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!!" (in a super high voice) He would always raise his tail in the air when he saw me. Sometimes he would meow as he came toward me. He was my teddy bear and would make me feel safe on nights when I felt like I was going have bad dreams. I was always calmed by the kneading and purring combination, and when he was giving himself a licked bath, I could feel true peace: that there was nothing else left in the world but this here and how, just calm down. Take it slow.

He was my therapist. I had no problem snuggling my face into his fur and crying. He used to climb onto my lap when I played the piano, no matter how difficult the angle of sitting was. Whenever I would crack a hard-boiled egg on the counter to peel the shell off, he would come bounding into the kitchen and rub his body against the back of my legs, begging for the yolk. Marie and I used to go to the pet store and buy the canned cat food so that Baby and Little White could enjoy a little change in meals.

I loved him, through his fat days and then when he lost a little weight and had this little bag of extra skin that made him look like a homeless man/cat. He always looked disgruntled, according to Marie, like he'd just woken up.

One time, at our home in Streetsboro, Ohio, he was sleeping in the pocket of the window and the screen fell out and he fell onto the ground outside. It was only a few feet down, but he was still so surprised. He used to sleep under bushes and we could often see him napping the the shade of the plants. Baby would faithfully climb onto the windowsill of Marie's room, and proceed to knock every single item off so that he could sit on it. We had fish tanks for awhile. He and Little White, or both would drink the running water from the filter and make the water get lower and start to trinkle so that I would have to refill the tanks more often. He would sleep in boxes and bags and climb into the vents of the old house and go exploring underneath and we could always hear the echoing of the steps throughout the house because we had wood floors.

There were things about having him, and cats, in general, that I didn't like. The hairballs and random barf found in random places around the house, or on my floor in my room, or on my bed (I hated those times) were not welcome. Then there was the cat pee. Whenever the litter boxes needed to be cleaned, (and this happened especially much when Little Yellow and Little White were older) they would pee on other things. Like the carpet that I used to have in my old room. Or the generality of backpacks on the floor. But pee can be washed out, no matter how unwelcome the smell is.

I still loved him. He was the most wonderful cat. He would follow me wherever I would go. He would go sleep in the neighbor's garage. He would snuggle me to sleep at night. I loved him much more than I realized today when I heard that he was gone. I used to think that when he would die that I would be okay with it, and that I wouldn't let myself cry. But I did. He was my sweetest love. My snug muffin. Even when he smelled like cat butt.

I miss you Baby.