Ernie
Ernie became part of our household nearly three years ago. A dear friend of my wife was moving to Alaska and was told that the wilds of the north aren't the best place for small felines. We were living in a tiny apartment at the time with barely enough room for both of us and the stacks of books I hadn't bothered to read yet, and I wasn't quite sure what was missing from that mix was a cat. Still, we drove out to Ellensburg one Sunday afternoon to meet our friend and pick up the cat.
Ernie cried the whole way back. New car, new people, all his old faces and places gone. He was terrified. He didn't stop making noise for three days and, even then, only took it down a notch. "It's the Siamese in him," I was told, "Siamese cats are talkers." "He's orange," I said, "and this isn't talking, this is bitching." Ernie never stops talking and, three years later, I talk back. Full conversations because I know what he is saying.
When we bought a house, we made the decision to allow him to be an indoor/outdoor cat. We thought long and hard about the choice and worried that, having had his front claws taken out, that he would become the neighborhood bitch. During the first spring, he got into a tussle with the yappy dog next door and came home with bloodstains on his head. We called him "Massive Head Wound Harry" for a month. He would sit in the corner of the room and flick his freshly notched ear at us in annoyance.
The first time we went away for a vacation we worried that, even with a friend who dropped by twice a day to see him, he would not deal well with us being gone. As it turns out, Ernie waited for about an hour after we left to make sure we were really gone before heading over to the other neighbor's house. He moved in there while we were away, coming back twice a day to be around when the cat-sitter dropped by in order to soak up as much pity affection as he could sweat out of her. The neighbor told us that more than once she would wake up in the morning and find Ernie on her couch. "What?" he would appear to say as she looked at him. "You forgot to let me out last night."
I don't know the people who live behind us, but I've heard them talking to Ernie when he walks the fence line and wanders into their yard to see what they are doing. He falls over when you look at him; the easier it is for you to rub him. Everyone loves Ernie because that is all he ever asked you to do.
And when he got hit by a car last night, it was the neighbors who turned out to take care of him. We came home to find out that they had taken him to the local animal hospital where the vets had to tell them that there wasn't anything that could be done for Ernie. His back was broken.
I've got to go to the animal hospital in a little while and pick up the body. Then I have to go to Home Depot to buy a shovel. Shitty reason to buy a shovel. What I have in common with my neighbors now is loss. Shitty thing to have in common with your neighbors.
I wish I could buy a shovel to fix the hole in my chest.
We miss you, Ernie.
