Published: June 05, 2008 08:45 am         

A flash of orange gone

Jim Atwell

Owen beat the odds for a country cat. He lived to be 16 and, though lame toward the end, managed to avoid foxes and coyotes, and even bobcats that will run right up a tree after a house cat. And he never became prey for some mouth-breather driving drunk who sees a slow animal crossing the road and makes it a target. It makes you sick, but that happens around here. You know it does.

But Owen beat the odds, lucky cat. Maybe you recall that I almost snuffed him when, not long after he joined me here, I left the heavy hatch to the basement open. Owen, exploring, jumped on the hatch, which fell, and pinned him. That should have killed him, but didn’t. And neither did any of a long list of close calls through his life.

What got Owen, as it does so many cats, was cancer. Though downing almost as many daily pills as I do, until recently Owen seemed in good health.

Then he began having bouts of coughing, so deep and racking that they left him exhausted. I thought it was an especially stubborn hairball, but adding that medicine did no good. By Friday evening of last week he was curled up behind the couch, refusing all food. Last weekend, Dr. Fassett’s calls were being covered by a Sidney practice.

We phoned ahead, then loaded Owen in the car and drove west. For the whole trip the cat lay with great dignity between Anne at the wheel and me next to her. But by the time we got to Sidney, he was gasping through an open mouth.

Dr. Leonard, a woman as gentle and compassionate as Fran Fassett, put Owen on oxygen; on Sunday morning called us in Fly Creek to say that she’d drawn a great deal of fluid from his chest. This, plus x-rays she had taken, strongly suggested cancer. She agreed that we should fetch him home and get him to Dr. Fassett on Monday.

Fran agreed with the diagnosis; his own x-rays found four cancers in the lungs. And so, late Monday morning, as we held Owen, Fran released that grand old cat from all pain. We buried him that afternoon, halfway down the sloping path to Oaks Creek, close to his buddy Zach the collie.

Blue attended the funeral, and after our brief prayers of thankfulness, he got excited that we three might continue down the hill so he could swim in the creek. Dancing around, he fell into the grave. The dog’s confused scrambling brought us the blessing of laughter. And I can’t imagine that Owen minded.

No need, I know, for me to eulogize Owen to you. I’ve written so much about him over the years that you probably have your own memories of him. Mine are without number, but the most immediate are of his jumping on the desk as often as he saw me at the laptop. He’d sit purring, watching the characters dance on the screen.

Once he got up and walked across the keyboard, creating what almost looked like a haiku. I should have kept it. But here’s my strongest memory: These last eight months, Parkinson’s has had me napping a couple of times a day. At the first creak of the bed, Owen would pad from wherever he was in the house. He’d hop onto the bed, settle between my shins, and sleep as long as I did.

The last night he was with us, Anne declared that she’d sleep on the couch so that Owen, increasingly weak, could be upstairs with me. Around nine I carried him up and laid him on the far side of the bed. He was motionless until about two. Then he stirred, dragged himself across and settled between my shins. It was a goodbye, I think.

The next morning, at the very end, he said goodbye to Anne. Owen was on the exam table, barely able to sit up; Anne sat beside him, stroking his fur. As Fran was preparing the shot, Owen gathered himself, moved to Anne, and somehow reared up. He put front paws on her shoulder and pressed against her. Maybe he was seeking a beloved comforter in his pain. I think it was much more.

My other memories are more general and not timespecific. Owen, as you know, was a wonderful orange — a marmalade cat, as they’re sometimes called. His color made him visible from far off. Often, from our screened porch, we’d spot a flash of orange deep among the trees of the woods, or far down the pasture, brilliant against the green grass.

If we called to him, he’d generally come, but after a pause to show us that it was his choice. Then we’d see the intermittent orange flash as he wove through light and shadow among the trees or as he pushed though the tall grass, only his tail giving away his location.

The slow walk was deliberate. There are often mice to catch among the grasses, and sometimes he’d show up at the porch with one to present us.

We won’t forget that dear cat: I for the years he and I shared alone in this house, Anne and I for those he shared with both of us, with Zach, and then with Blue. I imagine my friend now walking near restful waters — like Blue, he loved being down by the creek. And I imagine green pastures, too. Lush ones, with lots of scurrying mice.

I’ll miss fiercely that flash of orange, his purring, friendly presence. But both endure in my memory. And in my heart.

Find out about Jim Atwell’s book, “From Fly Creek — Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country” at www. JimAtwell.com.