Out of the Blue

Forever, My Lucky

Elegy to a black cat

By Deborah Salomon

About eight years ago I began dedicating January columns to my two cats — their habits, antics, stuff like that. In each, I reprised our history: Lucky, a sleek all-black male with talking eyes and a brain borrowed from Einstein had been left behind when his family moved. Neutered, front claws removed . . . somehow he fended for himself until the day he peeked into my front door. Black cats are my weakness. I established a feeding station on the porch. He dug himself a nest under the bushes.

After an adulthood of befriending needy animals, I had retired, not anticipating the loneliness.

That was December 2011. On July 4th I invited him in. He strolled to the kitchen, sat down, waited for his supper, hopped onto the couch and fell asleep.

I named him Lucky, for obvious reasons.  He was calm, quiet, stoic, intuitive and totally affectionate.

A year later, a wide-bodied gal with a nasty temper and a clipped ear signaling a spayed feral tried the same trick. I learned she was a neighborhood kitty, fed by many, housed by none. I let her in, too. She repaid me by hissing for a week so I named her Hissy, modified to Missy when she came around. But she lacked Lucky’s intelligence, his communication skills. He tolerated her, more so after she became his handmaid. They formed a bond.

A cat’s age is hard to ascertain. The vet and I estimated that, as of 2022, they were both 12-14.

I suspected Lucky might have early-stage diabetes last fall, when he began drinking and peeing a lot, so I made an appointment. Then in October, I broke my wrist. Managing my large carrier was almost impossible. I put off the exam until my pain subsided. Lucky seemed fine — ate well, enjoyed a nightly tussle with his gal-pal.

The kitties had a routine. Lucky pawed me awake at about 4 a.m. I got up soon after, fed them, then weather permitting, they went out, rarely beyond the yard. On the morning of January 12 Lucky refused breakfast, ran directly to the door with an insistent cry. I let him out.

He never returned.

I called him all day. I put up signs, talked to the neighbors, inquired about predators, contacted the Humane Society. Lucky didn’t like rain or cold.

A friend put a notice and photo in the paper. About once a year Lucky would take a “vacation day” but always came home at dark. He would never go into another house.

I slept in a chair by the door for three nights.

I felt lost, panicky, then desperate. I missed seeing him in the many “nests” he had made throughout the house. I missed him leaning on my shoulder in bed, hopping onto my lap while I watched TV, sitting on the windowsill guarding the house until I came home. Missy followed me, clung to me, went in and out, in and out, looking for her buddy. She hardly ate for a week.

I have never had an animal companion disappear. They all led long, healthy, happy lives and went to that final sleep in my arms.

Missy is adjusting. I am not. My eye spots something black in a pile of sweatshirts, or on a porch chair. I imagine him licking my ear, another surefire wake-up tactic. But I accept, through my tears, that he is gone.

Perhaps he left to die, as some animals do. If so, something good died with him.

I pity people who cannot form a relationship with an animal. They are missing the unconditional love not always available elsewhere.

Missy will be my last kitty. I could not inflict what happens to pets when their human dies. But of all the dogs and cats I have rescued, placed in homes or adopted myself, Lucky stands out. We understood each other. He made me laugh. He needed me. I loved him.

Good-bye, my sleek, handsome friend. The hurt may fade, but you will live forever in my heart.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.