The Gift

California weather differs from the rest of the world's climates. When you live here you realize only two seasons, summer and winter, reside in this state. March and October serve as bridge months cycling in the new and phasing out the old.

I walked the American River's south side a week ago and felt the change in the air, just east of Gristmill. It was not the first time I had ventured into and along the nature paths since my move back to the region. I share it frequently with one of my best friends here in Northern California, Kathy. The experience of the walk along the trails with the crisp morning air, the sounds of scurrying wildlife and the fresh scents of the river trails after a recent rain shook me a week ago. I felt a presence, and a longing, gentle-powerful and bittersweet enveloping me.   

This spot on the map will always hold a special place in my mind and heart.This was the domain of King Putt, my beloved feline companion for 17 years. He went by a lot of names, most were very affectionate. Baudelaire was his given name, Bo Kitty, the most common. Bo, Putter, Turd, The Gift, The Big Guy, Bad Kitty Bo and That Cat all had their moments on any given day over the years. They all fit at any given time and place.

On Saturday morning I found out in an e-mail Bo Kitty had died. I guess it happened fairly quickly. So quickly that a call to me on the Thursday he passed was out of the question given the circumstances. The housemaid had come for the day, and Bo Kitty would normally vacate the interior for backyard calm at the maid service arrival. I learned The Big Guy was sprawled on the slate entry way when my ex got home. She tried moving him but he was in acute distress crying and growling in pain when touched or moved. He never growled the entire time I knew him, so I understood this was a terrible sign. The emergency vet gave the grim diagnosis and Vicky ended his acute agony.

So quickly life can change, or end.

The very toughest part of my moving back to the Sacramento area after ten years exiled in Bakersfield was not taking Putter back with me. I could not bear to force another move on my old warrior comrade into the totally inside quarters of condo life after he finally found happiness in a Bo Kitty friendly neighborhood at a house on Wood Lane in Bakersfield. And so, he stayed behind, and I cried when I hugged and kissed him for the last time in mid-March of this year.

He was 17 and deaf. He still looked good, except his inner eyelids were beginning to creep up and stick causing vision problems and disorientation for some lengthy moments during many days this past winter. He still had his appetite. He still cruised the grounds and slept in his favorite spots inside and out. He and I slept together on the couch and guest bed the last six months I lived there. 

I know everyone has, or has had, The Best Pet ever in their lifetime. And I'm sure they were the best pet ever for all of you, but they were not, and could never be Bo Kitty, The King Putt of the American River.

He was a gift to a young bride back in the day when love was still in bloom and life offered just the promises of happy days in soft blankets of wedded bliss. She wanted a pure bred kitten, a Maine Coon. She had done her research, as she always did, and found a highly reputable breeder. I can still visualize the house in unincorporated Sacramento near the Yolo County-Sacramento County border where we went on our search. The huge cages where the stunning 20-plus pound stud cats were housed, the cacophony of howls and barks from the many dogs and cats also on the property, and the quiet bedrooms where mommy cats of the breed looked after their recently born kittens.  It was in a small bedroom with three adorable little fur-balls and their mom we spied The Gift. My young lady conferred with me, but it was her choice, and he would be hers in a few weeks time. The breeder allowed us to see the kitten's father, Ice Man, in a closed off room. This was no cat to mess with, all balls and one of the most visually stunning silver mackerel marked cats I had ever seen.

I can't remember how much I spent to obtain Baudelaire, which is the name Vicky chose for her kitten. Maybe it was $500 to acquire this little pure bred Maine Coon, the only pure cat breed (by the way) originating in North America. It was a terribly small price when all is said and done. Since it was early April, The Gift, she assured me, would take care of both her birthday and wedding anniversary gifts for that year. A thoughtful gesture, and one I would remember over all these years.

He arrived with papers and restrictions from the breeder. He had to be neutered, which was no problem. He should be only a house cat and could not be let outside without a carrier or leash. Sure thing. He met our wonderful Sheltie,  Bosco, and they became fast friends from their first moment together when they rubbed noses. Bo lasted as an indoor cat for about two weeks. I made the mistake of carrying him out to our side lawn in the back yard away from the pool, and plunked him on the grass where he joyfully explored strange new sights and smells and was immediately stung by a hornet hovering near some clover.

Well, that did not go so swell. I was in the doghouse for a spell and the little kitty (unfazed by the sting after a short bit) no longer would ever be satisfied with staying inside. His will was indomitable. And so we put in a pet door, and Bo Kitty went to claim his kingdom.

As it turned out, he conquered me first. He chose me as his cat servant extraordinaire. He played me like a virtuoso plays the instrument of his choosing, and I loved every moment- even through all the worry, guilt, anxiety, and prolonged separations life dishes out to creatures both large and small when they find themselves inextricably bound together by the fates of choices made. And so it was after a time Bo Kitty had become my cat. It was not what I intended, but so much of life turns out to be a series of unintended consequences as I think about it. Choices made and outcomes result, and seldom do they go as planned. I think a Scottish poet a long time ago said it better.

Bo lived his first 6 years on a street right along the American River with Vicky and I and my two sons (hers  as well for a goodly period of time). He grew along with a few little orphan kitties Vicky nurtured and adopted and our precious Bosco pup. The houses across the street abutted the trails and levies coursing the river banks. The river and those banks became Putt's kingdom. Our home his castle.

I won't bore you with long stories of Bo's prowess I will only state a few facts. I've seen him jump off rooftops at nearly 30mph and jump over a seven foot fence like it was nothing while heading home when he was being chased. I've seen him leap off a couch cushion to land 12feet high on a living room window sill. I've seen him carrying on a small fence ledge a large jack-rabbit in his mouth while two rottweilers jumped, growled and barked at him below trying to knock him off his wooden perch path position. I've seen him carry in his mouth while crossing our street a live rattle snake, and kill it with one bite in my front yard. My neighbor at the time, Don, had come running over with his shovel to kill the snake and just looked at me in disbelief as he witnessed the end of the rattler's life. "Won't need this shovel after all', Don said. I can't count the number of rats, voles, birds and other game who all wandered into his kingdom and never made it out again. I have discovered on my old coffee table two fresh rabbit feet left as my gift. He was an amazing specimen of all that is feline.

But more than physical feats, the cat had a regal and serene quality to him that nearly every person who he encountered marveled at. Don and Taiko, Jake and Melissa, Howard and Mary Lee, Dean and Linda, Merle, Jerry and other passersby all paid homage to King Putt as he would sprawl on the top of any of our vehicles parked in our driveway as they walked past our home. "That is some cat." For those who came into our home for some parties, poker or a quiet get together and got to see him up close and personal on his cat tree or sprawled on his couches the refrain was the same. "That is some cat."

Yes, he was. He was still some cat after living in hell for six years on University Avenue. Events of family and business had forced a move from our home in Sacramento. Homes in Bakersfield were selling in seconds, (remember the boom before the eventual bust?) and I got the best one I could find at the time. But, it was no prize. Much busier through street, alleys, intense heat, very few trees and a not very cat friendly town conspired against us as daily reminders of this new opposite lifestyle we now all shared. But time skipped on by to its peculiar cadence, and Bo finally got a reprieve from the indoor prison.  He moved with us all to a place where his old frame and curiosity could enjoy. His last five years were spent examining nearly a third of an acre in cat friendly surroundings with his personal water tank, the pool again, too quench his thirst. It wasn't the river, but it would serve.    

As I sit and churn these memories for you on this evening, I am reminded of a November night some 15 years ago when it was pouring rain and Bo Kitty had been absent for a full day. I had been out  calling his name for hours. Some of the less complimentary names Bo has acquired over the years were certainly uttered. I'd gone through the river access walkway (a path Bo never took) looking for him several times. No luck. I told myself this last attempt would be the final time to check on him. And who do I see turning along the curb drenched to a point he was hardly recognizable? The Putt, looking like a shriveled dish rag trotting into my outstretched arms. He looked pathetic, a scrawny bony mass of hair matted tightly against his skin. I took him inside. Vicky and I toweling him off and tucking him onto our bed. Finding my side a little soggy through the comforter when we turned in for the night, I put a throw on the bed and placed the cat tucked behind my legs at just below the knee after I squirmed inside the covers.

 I felt his back pressed against my legs wriggling and tensed for quite awhile before I dozed into a decent sleep. I woke up, and miraculously Bo had transformed back into his regal self. He was there through the night like he had been on the couch for all these years. Calm, contented and quietly urging that I move quickly to the food station for treats and a meal. He was tweaking my big toe with the edge of his nails in that playful but insistent way only he possessed.

I miss you greatly, my dear old friend. Vicky promised me a thoughtful reminder of you with your paw imprint to go with my memories of our lives together. You remain always, The Gift.