Our black cat died at sunset on Friday the thirteenth. Just then it started to rain. My real life often lends itself to overused literary metaphors.

It was an assisted departure, as the nearly 23 year old cat was so clearly on her uncomfortable and imminent way out. The vet made a house call, and Punkin died quickly in Karen’s arms on the sofa after a leisurely last meal of tastes of several of her favorite foods. She barely ate during the last two weeks.
We buried her in the back of our garden, standing in the gentle drizzle as dusk closed.

I recall a chunk of verse I wrote to my regular readers about this same cat back in 2002. Here is the missive I sent back when:

my crunchy eyes see grainily
that early dawn grays rainily
as cat black yowls operatically
like she does at night sporadically
from rusty fingers words now clack
and I yowl back to loud cat black
but, little to say and much to do
so one last line and then, adieu.

Don’t yall jest hate it when words just seem to wriggle their way out and insist on finding readers? Well, this mornings narcissistic ramble brought to you by those fine folks at Sleep-Be-Gone, providers of neurotic aged felines and their dander.

This verse about our sweet petite carnivore was in response to her new habit of voice. For her first 17 or so years, she was silent. She only mimed “meow” even in the most evocative of circumstances. Once she began this habit of loud exposition, often with no provocation, she kept it up until a few weeks ago. Her newfound quietness was another in a series of recent and increasingly pointed signs that she had completed her tenure here.
But her demeanor and disposition remained sweet until the end. This is very unusual for a creaky, old, arthritic cat.

She was surprisingly spry in her late teens (call it her 90’s, in human terms), as seen in this unposed shot from early 2002. She got up there on her own, and turned around on that uneven 3″ beam.

I have a few more small pictures of her up on http://danklarmann.com/tge/punkin/