Fluffy

It’s been about a year and a half since.

The throbbing pain has dulled. The grief subsided.

But I still wake up with tears streaming down my face.

I find myself glancing unconsciously at places he’d frequent –

the bushes by our house. The spot under the couch. My barren bed. –

Seeing him, stretched out, twisted like he always did, with his little paws reaching towards the heavens, whiskers bent, and a big big yawn.

He was so beautiful, so handsome. The prettiest cat I’d ever seen. We got him from a friend whose cat had a litter of five.

My mom wanted to name him Loong and his brother Lǎohǔ, dragon and tiger in Chinese, respectively, because his brother had stripes and I guess she just wanted to follow the zodiac.

I named him Fluffy because he was fluffy. So, so, so fluffy. (And his brother Squeaky. Because he has a very high-pitched meow and squeaks when you pick him up.) His fur would get everywhere, and I’d spend minutes combing out all the leaves and burs that would get caught in his underside. I would call him “Oh de(the) Fluff,” or “Mr. Fluff.”

He loved food and was extremely food motivated. I trained him to jump through a hoop across the dining chairs. Squeaky didn’t budge but Fluffy would do anything for a treat. They were trained to come running when they heard me shake the bag. I’d sneak him food at dinner until it was no longer a secret and every night while we ate, he would sit by my side and meow, sometimes jumping up on my lap, others pawing at me until I dropped a piece of salmon, chicken, pasta, really anything.

We live in the cul-de-sac, so there’s a forest behind us and our neighbors. Lots of woods, which mean lots of critters. While his brother was the main hunter, Fluffy had a penchant for rabbits. I only ever saw him with a rabbit in his mouth. Every other animal in the house usually was brought by Squeaky, and we’d scramble to help the poor creature. Sometimes we had luck and others it was too late. I kept a journal as a kid. I tried my best to help them and would cry when I couldn’t save them. And my cats would stare at me, lick their paw, and gaze some more like nothing was wrong.

He loved these catnips sticks we got him. They’d long been chewed and destroyed but somehow, he could still sense the catnip and he’d go crazy for them, attacking them, biting and scrunching it up. He also enjoyed playing with this fuzz-covered mouse that would rattle when you shook it, and I’d toss it down the hall, in my mom’s room, and he’d dart after it, pounce, and snatch it. He never wanted you to see him play, though. He’d also play with string and feather toys and climb the cat tower and curl on a ledge.

Whenever we took the dog for a walk, he and Squeaky would follow, at a distance at first then slowly catch up and they’d chase each other across the neighbors’ lawns, up trees, and keep pace beside us as we went up the one-lane neighborhood until we reached a certain house near the end of the street where our neighborhood intersects with a larger street, and they’d stop. And sit. And they wouldn’t move at all. They’d watch us as we went to the end and turned away and then once we reached them, they’d continue racing us down the street. I think they knew. Not to go any further. They were smart like that.

He slept in quite a few places. Always fond of the bed or couch, a chair under the table, any nook or cranny and somewhere soft. He loved sleeping on the kitchen table and my mom would half-heartedly tell me to take him off. Sometimes, in a bowl on the table. (He once climbed into this glass bowl and an open bowl on the dining table.) Curled or outstretched. Purring to his heart’s content.

I always knew when he came in at night through the cat door because he wore a bell on his collar, and it’d jingle, and he’d jump on my dresser where the cat food was and start eating or drinking and then a second later he’d jump on my bed and curl up on my chest and smother me. He loved to sleep on my chest. He would climb up and rub his nose against my forehead and lick me and then curl into a ball, or sometimes outstretch his paws like the Great Sphinx. Even when I laid on my stomach, he’d just make himself cozy on my back. Sitting there on my chest, he was so happy he’d droll and purr and squint his deep green eyes at me and purr and drool some more.

He wasn’t the brightest cat. He was somewhat special. I would pick him up and squeeze him or chase him around the house sometimes and he’d just come lovingly right back. Sometimes, he’d disappear for a few days then come back in the pouring rain and we figured he was just sleeping under a bush somewhere. That is, until one day I was petting him, and I noticed his collar was different. Because it was someone else’s. With a different phone number than ours. I screamed.

We figured that he’d been two-timing us and going to the neighborhood that connects to ours, and apparently this one family decided he was too scruffy looking (he was a bit scraggly but not too bad) and claimed him as theirs because he kept showing up because they kept feeding him CANNED food. No wonder. I was furious. The AUDACITY for them to take off a collar and put a new one on? I can’t understand the gall of some people. We had them return our collar and I glared daggers at them as my mom respectfully told them to leave our cat alone. They must’ve stopped feeding him because he stopped disappearing. As a precaution, we also started feeding him canned food.

Fluffy was my everything. While he got scrawnier in the last year before, it wasn’t anything indicative. It just happened, one night he came home, and I immediately knew. Something was wrong. The way he was walking. The way he wouldn’t touch his food or drink. We rushed him to the vet, but they told us to come in the morning. I stayed with him that night, watching, knowing. And even then, in so much pain, he stretched out his legs, crossed them like he usually did, and purred beside me, almost like he knew.

I held him and kissed him goodbye as the vet put him to sleep. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Afterward, it was the routine that broke me. The sheer enormity of the house. The flashes, traces. The stack of cans. The waiting for his collar bell to ring at night. Seeing him where he should be. The confusion by Squeaky as he searched for his brother but found nothing. How he became suddenly attached to me and overly affectionate and vocal. How utterly empty and foreign everything felt and how I was still there and he wasn’t.

The first Christmas without. I used to dress him up in a build-a-bear holiday costume (a handsome cape with silver swirls and Squeaky would get a scarf) and now it just sits shoved away in my drawer. My birthday. All these moments I’d just assumed he’d be there for. His first birthday gone and just Squeaky turning one year older. He was only 13. He was an indoor-outdoor cat but still. He wasn’t that old.

I couldn’t look at photos or videos. Any love I felt for cats in general dissipated. I don’t know if it’s ever coming back, despite my mom still getting me cat themed items. I never fully processed his death as my Oxford trip was a month after and I forced myself to ignore, to suppress. And then school started, and I avoided going home. And now it’s been over a year, and I still cry. I still have this ache. This emptiness.

I had other childhood pets pass before him.

But they never affected me as greatly.  

I’d never known a love like this.

I’d never loved anything so much.

I don’t think I ever will again.