Ode to Felix

The Love Guru

Ode to Felix

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Our cat not “the cat”

That creepy-mean

Cartoon from the thirties

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His clickety-clack

Four-thirty in the morning

Racetrack across hardwood

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Trumps the alarm clock

Gray tumbleweeds of hair

Bank the baseboards

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Roll in the corners

Of every room

He kneads my chest

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Before settling down to purr-

Rumble me off to dreamland

My nightly sunggle-bud

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Monarch of the sofa arm

Bombardier of basement sands

Lap blanket extraordinaire

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The dark calls to you

More than my pleas to return

My fears for your safety

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Having seen the gang work

Of those masked marauders

Who disemboweled another

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King of the night

Felix is our prince of peace

Sporting bushy pantaloons

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A flicking boa tail

This hairy lover

Handsome mini-lion

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Protective little brother

Of the dark side of Luna

Paranoid and jealous

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Of Felix the Sphinx

Furry love-god guru

Of humility and grace

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Felix came to us through my mother. He was her last pet. My niece and her daughters found Felix (already named of course) at a local shelter where he'd been for almost one year. The shelter told them Felix was found in a dumpster in town. The whole thing seemed odd to us because he was a lovable and handsome Maine Coon lap cat. The day they gave him to my mom for a birthday present, he camped out in her lap and wouldn't leave. He kept pushing his head into her hand as she petted him. She'd pull his ears and he'd purr louder: “How do you like that, you crazy cat?” she asked him. He loved it! So how did he wind up in a dumpster or remain untaken at the shelter for ten months? It seemed like destiny in the way that everything in hindsight does.

Unfortunately my mom only had him for a few months before she died, so my wife and I decided to take him. We had acquired another “rescue” cat a year before. So within two years of burying the two cats we'd had since the kids were small, we were a two cat family again. I guess you could call us cat people. We love dogs, too (how can you not love dogs and kids?) but cats are way easier: the difference between teenagers and toddlers when it comes to care and attention. Cats are a lot like people who prefer to be left alone unless they want some social interaction or little loving. “Want” is the key perspective. They are so human-like in their selfish independence. God knows we should be able to appreciate that. They demand respect, and living close to them has taught me to respect all creatures.

So Felix joined our tribe and Luna let him know his place, that he should look elsewhere for accommodations, that this was her turf. Of course he granted her the authority she demanded as queen of our castle, but that didn't make his presence or his lovable manner any more tolerable to her. She had a history of isolation, being a solo act, and never fully warmed-up to people, saw all cats as a threat. She tried to prevent him from having contact with us, but he was a people kitty. She would retaliate when he received our attention—so began the Cat Box Wars. I've been cleaning up cat piss for longer than I want to admit. The one place Felix laid claim to was our bed. Each night he slept with us. Luna was never interested in that space until he began sleeping there. Even though it was difficult for her to hop up on the bed, she did and tried to run him off. When I eighty-sixed from the bed, his only sanctuary, the cat box disasters intensified—my daily nightmare. It almost drove me over the edge. So after Luna died last year, we were looking forward to spending some quality time with Felix.

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You probably guessed where this is headed. We put Felix down two days ago, euthanasia. He'd been losing weight and steps for a couple years. We didn't know his exact age, but most likely he was around fifteen. He had kidney and liver issues, a massive cyst on his face, and for some reason he stopped using the cat boxes period. His quality of life had declined, and ours had, too. It felt selfish to keep him going and selfish to authorize his death. No wins in the end. But he brought so much joy into our lives, so hard to let them go. Felix joined Luna, Smelly, and Poppy in our backyard pet cemetery of psychos, heroes, healers, and lovers. The family cemetery. We loved them all in spite of their flaws. Isn’t that what families do? We love our children and parents unconditionally, and spend the rest of our energy staying alive before we die.

Two days ago, so it’s understandable to still see him around the house, go to the door to let him in, wait for him to join me in bed, climb onto my chest and crawl within an inch of my face. I’m sure his robin friend in the backyard wonders why he doesn’t come outside. And I remember what it was like for a year or two after my mother died, so I know Felix hasn’t really left me. He was so happy to be with us like Smelly (another heroic cat story) who arrived at our house in a blizzard and never left. He too was a lover, and like Felix, he acted like a dog—a dedicated “people-cat.” Maybe that comes from being abandoned and desperate, those hard knock beginnings, or maybe that's just who they were, both lover-cat (dog-impersonating) Maine Coons just looking for love and a home. Everything can be broken down to a choice between love and fear, and it takes true courage to opt for love in the face of fear. Great lovers teach us that. Unfortunately too much love can get you killed we all know. We loved Felix intensely because he loved us intensely. It's not a complicated formula. Here's a closer written for another family member, Poppy. It applies to Feex and all the pussy cats curled up in all the hearts of their people. If you feel like doing something in Felix’s name, go out of your way to express, show your love for another. Be alive, be present today.

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Waking Poppy

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Born in straw in a cow barn stall,

where the plains meet the Rockies,

Poppy cat was our second

choice after Squash got squashed, accidentally run over

in our driveway by the friend who'd given him

to us and named the kittens after blossoms.

Since our boys had changed Squash's name to Lucky

(Lucky Squash) it wasn't hard to convince them

to keep Poppy, Poppy. Now sixteen,

he's dying, slowly, quietly: a cancer

of time. Oh so gingerly dying on the sofa,

on our blankets, in our laps.

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No more trophy

mice held in his mouth for our approval; no

more hair-ball puke-puddles on the carpet and floor;

and alas, no Saturday morning wake up

prod of cold nose to our cheeks: let's eat.

Our babies' baby, is slipping away.

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I've been told some people hate cats. I don't

quite know what to make of that.

I guess they've never known what it's like

waking up next to a gentle beast,

watching its soft eyes search yours

before snuggling into your heat,

craving your touch, seemingly

needing to touch you.

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I know people behave better

in the presence of animals. Many times

when my rage or anguish threatened to bury me,

times I couldn't bear my own breaking

heart, Poppy came to me, knew I was falling

apart and needed his warmth, his purr and breath.

He laid down beside me, stayed,

assured me it was okay

to not know, to let go, to be lost.

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Let us drink to our old friend, Mr. Poppins;

this wake . . . for our awakening souls.

He showed us how to pay attention

to the world around us, how

to love completely, and how to go.