Puffy's Lament

Three years ago, I inherited a cat from my wife’s grandmother. Not the typical barn cat that would stray in one’s yard for adoption, but a Persian. Excitement overwhelmed me when looking at his beautiful smoke colored, long hair, and a cool smooshed up face.There is an unspoken stigma about purebreds that states, ‘if it’s registered, then it must be named a most ridiculous and lengthy name. Snuggle Fluff Puff Black Magic. What the heck? It took a month to memorize it. My wife’s grandmother called him Puff for short. Puff was so plain and cliche sounding, but I couldn’t come up with anything better. Puff was too short, and so he became Puffy. I guess two syllables doubled the length somehow. Every time I introduced someone to him, I found the need to give a disclaimer. "And this is my cat, Puffy, but let the record show that I didn’t name him.’Puffy went into hiding for two months after bringing him home. One day he showed up and turned out to be the best lap kitty, and my best friend. Every night I would sit in bed and read to unwind for the evening, and Puffy liked to curl up next to me and take a quick nap. When it was time to go to sleep, before I made any indication that I was going to kick him off the bed, he would get up and head downstairs. He seemed to be so intuitive.Persians also have the tendency to cry out in the middle of the night. The first night I heard him, I thought that I inherited a possessed cat. Words were forming in his mouth and fear gripped me so bad, I jumped out of bed and began casting demons out of him. This was an exorcism that you'd never see in a movie. At first it started with him saying ‘hoo…. bo’, and later developed into ‘al-riiiiight.’ Frightful as it was, I soon grew used to it. Life with Puffy became the essential routine of grooming him, when I had opportunity, consistently running the vacuum and shaving him periodically.January of this year came and I had to go to New York. I think Puffy became really upset with me, because when I came home, he had gone into hiding again. Nesting in a closet, he seemed pretty determined not to come out. One month later, I had again grown accustomed to him hiding, but no worries, for he would come out when he was ready.Life carried on as usual and one day on my return home from work, I noticed Puffy sprawled out on the kitchen floor stiff and lifeless. God rest his soul. “Oh crap,” I blurted out, as my sadness was overshadowed by wonder of what to do with him. Any other time of year would be fine, but the middle of February in Ohio is just bad planning on his part.Death is a bit hard for me to deal with, so I went on the hunt for the thickest gloves I could locate, and found some leather work gloves around my toolboxes. With them, I opened a trash bag and was able to pick him up just enough to fit into the bag. Vomit began to climb my esophagus and subsided as I placed the bag outside the back door. It was obvious that I would not be able to dig a whole in the frozen tundra of my back yard, which was buried under a foot of snow. Retrieving the shovel from the shed, I made up my mind to try; somehow it seemed like the right thing to do.Fingers and toes were numb and somehow my hand got bruised. Shivering from the cold, I decided that it wasn’t worth it, so I tossed the shovel back into the shed. “Now what,” I yelled, throwing my hands in the air in a fit of frustration. There is only one option left for this time of year. The trash. We were still bouncing back from Christmas, and my wife hadn’t paid the bill yet. Trash had piled up since pickup had ceased. Tossing Puffy on top of the pile I ran into the house for warmth.Two weeks passed and Puffy was now a block of furry ice. One could have committed murder with him if they used him as a club. The fact that he was still outside grew on my mind and I began getting nervous. Spring was almost here and the last thing I needed was a frozen, dead cat, thawing and smelling up my house. The temperature was 11 degrees on Thursday and trash day was Friday for the neighborhood. Thursday night the neighborhood put their trash out to the curb to prevent having to wake up earlier than necessary.Falling awake at 2:00 am, I began to think about what to do with the cat. Climbing out of bed, I located some clothes to go outside. My pants tripped me up and I fell to the floor waking my wife. “What ya doing” she asked. “Nothing”, I answered. “Go back to sleep”. With that I went downstairs and grabbed a coat and sock hat.The night was quiet and after bundling up, I proceeded out the back door, grabbing the body bag and making my way to the alley. Once I hit the alley, I went two blocks down and two block over, scurrying from dark place to dark place like a city rat in the early morning. Reaching a dark place in another alley, I decided to make the drop. I placed Puffy in someone’s trash and took off. There was no reason for fear but I’ve known people to get shot at in the dark, in spite of the logic behind it. Running in the door, I stripped clothes off and made my way back to bed. While sliding under the blankets, my wife turned and groggily asked, “ Where’d you go”? “No where”, I replied. “Just putting out the cat”.

Reviews

[M Walser]

Thank you for the read and response. I am glad you found this entertaining. Your response to it has totally made my day. I am very encouraged. Thank you!

[Samuel Dickens]

Now that's a funny story. Poor Fluffy, but poorer you, I say. I've had trouble getting rid of live cats, but a dead one? Thanks for this silly grin on my face. Oh, your writing is outstanding.