The year was 1997. I had graduated college, and moved to Michigan with whatever I could fit in my Nissan Stanza. Things were going not-so-great with my boyfriend and so I got my own place. Since I was working two jobs to make rent, and I needed everything for my empty, beige apartment, I was a frequent visitor to the yard sales around Ann Arbor.
One day I followed an ad to a moving sale in Whitmore Lake. Right off the bat I saw a microwave I could use, and some shelves. And a sign… “2 Grey Cats. Free to Good Home. Prefer to keep them together.” Cats. Cats would make my crappy apartment a little more like a home. I paid the man $5 for the microwave and the shelves, and asked after the cats. I found out they were both male, aged 3-4. neutered, friendly, and had been taken in as kittens wandering in the backyard. He believed they were brothers, even though Smokey was a year older. The family was moving to North Carolina in a Geo Tracker, and could not take them. At the end of the week, they would go to the pound. Of course I could meet them.
He took me round to the screen door and there, sitting in the middle of the kitchen, was a tall cat, solid grey without the slightest marking, and the longest tail you ever saw. His fur was longish (about halfway to longhaired) and tipped with silver. Smokey, said the man. That’s kind of a dumb name for a grey cat, I thought… I’ll have to change that. The tall grey cat looked at me calmly, this invader in his kitchen. “Brrr” he said. Let me see, said the man… where is The Bandit? I laughed to myself and knew they would keep their names. From the other room he produced a smaller grey cat, like Smokey in 3/4 size. Smokey’s brother in arms, The Bandit.
I took them both home with me, with my $5 microwave and shelving unit. Their old mom, the wife of the man I spoke to, cried with sadness and relief when I picked them up. I promised her I would take good care of them. They’re such good kitties, she said.
When I unpacked them from the Stanza I expected them to be scared and hide, like cats do, but they walked out of the carriers and into my life like it wasn’t ain’t no thang. They didn’t seem to mind the beige paint and the lack of furniture. That night, with a quiet “brrrrrr,” Smokey jumped onto the bed, and slept with me the whole night through, curled into my right side. My stupid crappy apartment felt a little less lonely with a purring kitty in it.
Smokey slept with me every night. He followed me from room to room. When I came home after a long day, he would always jump into my lap for a little snuggle. Whenever I sat on the couch, he sat in his spot directly behind me, on his green blanket. If I was late coming to bed, he would come and get me. If Bandit chased and played too roughly, he hid behind me. As my husband said, he loved mommy the mostest.
Years and years passed. My life changed in so many ways, but Smokey was always there. I moved twice to new states. I went back to school, and I got married. Smokey didn’t worry if my routine changed or if his windows looked out on a horse farm or a city street. As long as he could find his green blanket behind me on the back of the couch – that had traveled with him through 3 states, and 5 apartments and 3 couches and 4 roommates – Smokey never had much to say about it, other than “brrrrr.”
One year became two became ten became thirteen. And with those years the bright calm eyed kitty I saw in the kitchen in Whitmore Lake was fading. He went deaf although it didn’t seem to bother him much. He needed steps to get onto my bed, and his whiskers went white with age. But then he lost weight even though I poured food into him. His silky soft coat became rough and spikey. He hardly groomed and mats formed in his fur. He no longer slept with me and was wakeful at night, crying with hunger yet so picky with his food I kept 8 different types on hand. If he ate, it was only a few bites at a time. I tempted him with chicken, with meatloaf, with more expensive cat foods, and with cheaper ones. He drank and drank at his water bowl. Kidney failure, said the vet. “Brrrr” said Smokey.
Today I put my cat Smokey to sleep. He might of gone another month, or another two, but the bad days were coming more frequent, and his good days more rare. He hated the car and he hated the vet. I knew that any complicated measures I took would be for me, and not for him. He had a good run, and a happy, healthy life. All I wanted was for his last day to be a good day, a calm day, and not a scary crisis with a midnight run in the much-hated car to the emergency vet.
His last day was a good day. He slept with me last night, curled into my right side. He had ham baby food for breakfast, and all the butter he wanted. I let him drink from the sink as long as he liked.
My vet makes house calls, and he came this afternoon. Smokey was sitting behind me on the couch on his green blanket when the vet arrived… I stroked his head and under his chin so I would not have to feel every vertebrae under the skin of my poor, sweet, skinny cat. My poor Smokey was so thin. The vet gave him some sedative, and as the drugs took effect, he curled into me and lay down. “Brrr” he said.
RIP Smokey 1993(?)-2009
