Scout

1998-2015

“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”
~ Dr. Suess

I called him Scout because when he arrived in my life seventeen years ago, I thought he was a she and of course named the tiny drop of a kitten after one of my favorite Harper Lee characters from To Kill A Mockingbird.

Found in the woods by a Good Samaritan during a rain storm, the eensy creature was carried in a soggy paper bag to the Monterey police office where my dear friend, Kate, worked as a counselor. She called me up and said there was someone she thought I should meet. And she was right. The minute I saw him it was instant love. I learned that the kitty was the only survivor from a litter that had succumbed around him. And that’s the kind of mettle he carried with him throughout his life. He was tiny but tough. Had a don’t- mess-with-me “cat-itude” that somehow morphed into my own psyche as well. I learned from him. Although I did have to teach him to stop growling whenever someone went near his meal. He’d stretch his little feet over his cup and guard it with his life. That’s probably how he survived. I pushed the thought away that he might have offed his brothers and sisters for food. Scout? Nahhhh. Anyway, he soon trusted that he didn’t have to fight for his meals and relaxed into his innate sweetness.

At the beginning he had yet to be weaned from his abandoned momma so I fed him formula from a doll bottle. He’d often curl up in the hood of my bathrobe as I wrote at the computer and then when he was entirely satiated of sleep and food he’d ping-pong from room-to-room doing the kitty burst-and-fly-charge-and-hide dance. An absolute wild child, he drove his old cat brother, Quince, nearly out of his mind. I worried that having a tiny new buddy to harass him constantly wasn’t being fair to poor Quince—at that point being an ancient and creeky feline deserving of some peace and respect in his winter years. But the resulting Scout-onslaught proved to be positive. The little guy reawakened Quince’s inner cat and soon the two were chasing and pouncing all over each other. Scout gave his big bro some added quality years that were a gift.

And so Scout’s magic continued through the many seasons of my life—which entailed five crazy moves and too many carsick cat rides; seeing me leapfrog from drama-to-drama—tons of jobs and even more whacko-relationships that broke my heart into pieces. Yet we rallied together.

Especially when my wondrous Pete and his dear dog, Krissy, arrived in our lives and the sun came out at last. In time, Quince and Krissy passed across the Rainbow Bridge and our big fat Boo cat arrived on the scene where he now holds court in our lives.

The four of us have been blessed with a joyful life together. Scout, never being a carry-around-and-cuddle-cat, was instead a pure lap cat. He loved to curl up on you and beside you and between Pete and me at night and always whiskers-to-beard-face-to-face with his beloved Dada or snugly into the crook of Pete’s arm.

Wide-eyed and inquisitive with his bright golden yellow-green eyes staring directly at you like a little Felix the Cat-face, his long black tail forming an upright question mark, he was both social and super smart. He seemed to adjust to just about every situation with a sense of calm and acceptance that put us all at ease. Scout was our door-greeter, loving to meet new friends and showing keen interest in everyone, especially demanding that they look at and lavish him immediately. Like a miniature butler in his smart black and white tux and white gloves and boots he was always looked sleek and far more formally “dressed” than the rest of us in his clan. Much more unskittish than Boo, Scout would still hit the ceiling recoiling from Pete’s terrifying sneezes. In time the vacuum scared the bejesus out of him as well. But as little as he was he was a mighty force—chasing his behemoth brother everywhere and never allowing him to grab the choice lap or bed seats first. He was the Alpha and like a tiny Napoleon guarded his territory with all the strength and conviction of a warrior. Reluctantly, Boo (who was use to the “groom-and-gang-up-on” game they played together) respected his second-placeness whenever Scout loomed near.

Loving music (no matter how bad it was) there wasn’t a guitar session that he missed, savoring his front-row stance staring up at us while we wailed away. Or sitting on top of the amplifier or tucked next to us rubbing his head on the vibrating guitar strings seemingly in time to the music. As soon as he heard us practicing he’d appear. Probably the only one on the planet who didn’t run for the hills when we performed.

He was forever scrunched next to or on top of us whenever we settled into a chair or the couch or the bed or at the computer. And at the most intimate times when we’d rather he’d disappear, he would be there. Staring. Trying to join in on the fun. We called him “Pervy Cat” for a reason. Scout was a presence never to be missed. How in the world could such a loud spirit be finally silenced?

It was only recently, say within the last year, that we began to notice a discernable tremor and shakiness in his demeanor. His shiny coat began to dull over a rapidly diminishing, bony frame and he was drinking more and more water. We filled his water glass and water bowl daily. More dazed than bright-eyed, he ate less and upchucked more. He was spiraling down.

Finally, he gave us the sign that he had had enough struggle. He was done and we needed to let him go. And on Saturday, October 17, 2015, he released his earthly domain.

I know life goes on and we are now in the process of throwing away all his meds and saline bag for hydrating his sad, failing kidneys (which we did every other day for nearly six months.) And washing the carpet clean of way too many puke stains. And focusing all our attention on the ever-patient Boo who has by default now become Numero Uno, the Alpha-in-Waiting.

As for Scout, will we ever toss out his favorite blanky? Never. Will we continually look for him to jump on our laps whenever we sit down, or while we practice Yoga smiling at his adorable “upward cat-face” sinewing between our “downward dog” poses? Or wait to hear his quiet commentary in response to conversations with him? Or delight in his antics of him chasing the light reflections bouncing off the refrigerator door or guitars onto the walls? Or slumber together in cozy afternoon naps to the tune of dancing palm trees outside our window? Or chase him as we play the change-the-sheets-and-fold-the-clothes game as he pounces under and over and around everything in reach? Or long for his soothing purrs of contentment? Or ache to have him front and center every time we begin a music jam session? Or look for him the moment we open the door? The answer is: Always and Forever. His physical absence has left a canyon in our hearts. We will never recover. But we will go on and meet again someday. Of that I am sure. We love you, darling Scout. Thank you for seventeen years of joy. Peace be with you, angel…

Let Evening Come

BY JANE KENYON

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.