Pace + Bene, Frankie

  On Friday afternoon, we had the sad task of sending our last cat, Frankie S, on to cat heaven. He joined our family in June of 2009, so we had a full 17 years with him. Frankie was one of our three backyard kittens. Smudge, Frankie’s half-brother, was the first.

 I whispered Smudge in on a cold December night when his mom, a beautiful long-haired gray feral, abandoned him. He was sick as well as cold and after I coaxed him in for food and tucked him against my tummy under my t-shirt, we became fast friends.

 In her next litter, mom produced three kittens, Frankie and two sisters. We gave both of the girls away to a friend with small children and they have resided happily in that family ever since. Frankie stayed with us. I loved his blue eyes and lovely coat. He was marked like a Maine Coon, with the M above his eyes and with long tufts of fur growing between his toe pads. His name, Frankie S, is in honor of Ol’ Blue Eyes himself. Those of you as old as I am will know who I mean.

 The next year I whispered in a final backyard kitten, Baby Boy, so named because we weren’t going to keep him… You can guess how well that worked out! Baby’s mom was also a daughter of the gray cat, so Baby was their nephew. We ended the string of backyard kittens by doing an aggressive Trap-Neuter-Release campaign in which we caught, fixed, and turned loose five adult cats that frequented our yard and its ready source of water and safety.

 Smudge passed away a few years ago. Baby followed last year. When Frankie was diagnosed with cancer in the spring, we knew we’d have to let him go before long. It was hard balancing our desire to have him with us and his need to be pain-free. That came last week.

 Over our 50 years together, Michael and I have never not had pets—dogs, cats, singly and both at once, and a fish or two occasionally. So I have attended many heartbreaking deaths over the years, but perhaps none as sad as Frankie’s.

 It isn’t just that Frankie was a sweet cat with a coat of fluff that begged to be stroked, although he was. And it wasn’t just that Frankie emerged from a shell of timidity and quiet after his co-cats passed away to become a vibrant personality, although he did. No, Frankie’s loss goes much deeper because he will be our last cat.

 In our late 70s, we don’t have it in us to take on the responsibilities of pet ownership any longer. I hate that this is true, but I acknowledge its reality.

The week before the scheduled date at the vet’s office, my friend Amanda Sisk, an artist and sculptor of enormous talent, posted a photograph of a bozzetto—a small clay study of a larger sculpture—she had made of Ellie, a cat of her acquaintance. My heart lit up: Ellie would be the perfect memorial to Frankie. I placed my order immediately.

The day before our appointment, Ellie arrived in a small box nestled in brown paper shreds. When I opened it and cradled her in my hands, she was warm from her hours in our mailbox. I felt such comfort holding her. 

 Frankie resides in my heart, embodied in Ellie, forever snoozing in the warm sun, a purr ready for any stroking hand. Saying goodbye is hard.

 What have you had to surrender? What losses, big or small, make your eyes well up? As my friend Amanda always signs her notes,

 pace + bene