Monday, July 23, 2007

RIP Howie


Some animals have a funny way of working their way into the deepest and most private places in your heart. Some animals become so inextricably woven with our lives that to imagine being without them is to imagine being without your parent, your child, your spouse or your friend....forever. And when you do find yourself without them, you wonder how much longer you can face the quiet walls in the house you used to share. You wonder if you'll ever be able to stretch out into the empty spot on the bed they used to sleep. A pair of boots in the corner, a sweater on an armrest...you wonder when the sight of those common things will ever just go back to being just what they are, and not what you wish it to be.

Howie was one such animal.

I was working at a GNC at the Hanover Mall back in the early 90's. I was essentially squatting in an old warehouse in Rockland where I was renting an art studio. There were plenty of artists there, and some of us lived there even though it was illegal, but the manager didn't mind because he liked us and we kept an eye on the place. My studio was 3 sheets of drywall and a wall full of windows. I slept on a futon on the ground, I cooked my food on a hotplate, I washed up in the sink down the hall. I had everything I needed except a pet to watch over.

One day when leaving the mall after a day of work, I witnessed an uproar in front of the pet store window. Three old ladies were rocking on their heels back and forth and hooting with laughter. Whatever it was, I had to peek. There, hanging upside down from a carpeted cat condo and swinging his front claws at the ladies on the other side of the glass, was the longest, scrawniest black kitten I ever saw.

I went in. I asked the girl if I could see him. She brought him to me. He was older, not at all a cuddly and easily sold tiny kitten, but a gangly, stringy teenager. I held him, and purring, he shimmied out of my arms and clambered his way awkwardly up to my shoulders, wrapped himself around the back of my neck, and proceeded to lick my cheek.

That was 14 years ago. Since then, Howie has been wrapping his long self around the shoulders of me, my parents, my grandmother, Matt and any of my friends who gets to know him long enough.

He has been purring and sleeping in our laps, beds and couches. He kept constant vigil beside my mostly bedridden grandmother in her final years, comforting her during her bouts of senile dementia. He kept my parents company when I moved to CA, and when he became nearly deathly ill, my parents wrapped him in blankets near a humidifier and took him to the vet day after day. As I moved about the country, Howie was living with my folks, but he never forget who I was when I came home. He would come running down the stairs, meowing, as if he was a dog.

In fact, he was more dog than cat. He was attached to people. If you were watching TV or reading a book, he'd be there, behind your head on the chair. In bed, he'd be stretched out beside you against your leg or curled up in a ball beside your head. He loved to just be in the presence of people he knew, to hear their voices and rub up against ankles, as if he was a part of it all, and not just some indifferent feline creature waiting for his supper.

This cat was so loved by us all. He was the luckiest cat on the planet, the lucky bastard. He was so spoiled rotten that it was almost disgusting. He demanded love, received it, and gave it back tenfold. In his old age, he became even more affectionate, demanding us to follow him to bed so he could get petted or climbing up unwitting computer users to plop down on your chest under your chin and rumble with purring.

All he wanted was love. And that's what he gave back.

We lost him 7/7/07. He went out that night and never came back. Matt and I were frantic trying to find him. We did find him. Monday night after work, we planned on putting flyers up around the neighborhood. We decided to check the bushes around our house one more time before we left, and that's when I smelled the scent of death. I followed the scent to the garbage can in front of our neighbor's house. This is where we found Howie.

Apparently, our neighbor was on vacation, and his dad down the street came by to check on the house. He found a dead cat in the backyard and placed it in the trash. He had no idea it was ours until Matt talked to the neighbor this morning. We think he might have been hit with a car and climbed off somewhere hurt.

If we hadn't found him, we wouldn't have been able to give him a proper burial, we never would have known where he went. We wrapped him in a tropical fabric I bought in O'ahu and placed him in a box. I wrote some sort of memorial and placed photos of Matt and I, my parents, my grandmother and the beach where we lived for most of our lives, I placed all of this in a ziplock bag. Then we buried him in the backyard under the palms, near the mango tree, next to the grave of the last tenant's dog. We will plant flowers on it later, and I will paint a marker.

Our house was a happy house. It was Matt, Howie and I. Howie greeted us each and every day, tail up, eyes bright, mewing frantically. Not anymore. Not ever. The house is quiet and all the cat shaped shadows around corners and on beds and floors are nothing but shadows.

It is very profound this sadness we have for that little guy. He was a gift from whatever mindless chaos runs the universe. He didn't deserve this. But we can't do a thing about it. I'm crying as I write this.

Rest in peace, Howie. You were the best fucking cat one could ever hope to have. We will miss you friend.















My dad with Howie on our back porch in Hull, and Howie with Matt napping