This story is precious to me and up close looks like a boring story written by a loser with no life who is absolutely obsessed with her freaking cat. But almost ALL short stories are nightmarishly boring (not using that as an excuse) so read with an open mind, internet browser, and enjoy this adorable picture of my childhood pet.
Leroy
The life of a cat is insignificant when you compare it to that of a person’s. Not only is a cat’s life fleeting, but it is mostly void of the adventure and depth that usually makes up a person’s life. With that in mind, it is still not surprising in the least how strongly a person can love such a placid creature. A bond between a simple cat and a complicated person is so keen and profound that it lives on years after the cat is gone. In fact, the memories can live forever and often do.
Leroy was such a cat. A simple, proud, finicky thing who found over-attention annoying and under-attention intolerable. Leroy was a cat who never found fault in any person but still made everyone earn his attention. Ultimately everyone who ever came across him loved him.
I was his girl, the one who rescued him. At age seven, I was given permission by my parents to go to trailer number 87 and ask for one of the free kittens. After I knocked on the door, quivering from excitement, I was greeted by a pug-faced man in a sweat-stained tank top. He gruffly asked if I wanted the “gray one” or the “black one.” I, a budding writer, had an obsession with witches and the supernatural so I quickly chose the “black one.”
The first time I held him he purred. Most kittens are afraid to leave their warm mothers and mew endlessly in the unfamiliar arms of their new owners. Leroy didn’t utter a peep. He knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
For the first few weeks I doubted whether I had received a black cat or not. He was so sickly and feeble that his fur had only grown in ash-colored patches. Leroy’s vet doubted how long he would actually live. The poor cat had gotten a pretty rough start.
All was well eventually, once Leroy was nurtured back to health by the caring hands of his new family. Sooner than anyone thought, he was chewing on all the plants in the house, sharpening his claws on the sofa, tormenting the dog, and chasing after all that dangled tauntingly from my clothes.
He was a typical kitten who eventually grew thick black fur with two white patches. The bond between us became that of playmates. I would grab a shoelace and climb up top my bunk bed and fish for Leroy. Once he grew weary of chasing it around on the floor, he would leap onto my bunk and bury himself in my stuffed animal pile, blending in expertly.
When school let out the house was always filled with my laughter. He loved to play with me, and especially loved to bat at my long braids or my ponytail. He even tolerated me dressing him up in doll’s clothes. I would make him lay in a helpless heap for tea parties dressed in Baby All Gone’s nightgown. Lucky for Leroy, I grew out of those phases early.
Every night I headed off to my bedroom and Leroy would race in front of me to beat me there. Leroy always waited patiently at the foot of the bed for me until I got settled under my blankets. Once I had been still long enough, Leroy would walk up my body, already purring, and allow me to pet him. I would have to scratch his ears, under his chin, both cheeks, and finally scratch his back until he could no longer handle it and fall over. Purring like a motorcar, Leroy would find a comfortable spot in front of my face and let me fall asleep petting him.
Whenever I spent time in my room, Leroy had to be with me. I could never shut my bedroom door without him scratching the bottom and begging to be let in. Our favorite pastime was The Closet. A very tall ceiling had given some carpenter an idea long ago to build cabinets above a sliding-door closet. The cabinets, too high up to be convenient for much, were mostly useless except for the visits Leroy paid them. Hardly three days could go by without Leroy prancing around and crying to be hoisted up into The Closet. He nipped and rubbed his head against me until I finally gave in to his demands. Once inside the dark, mysterious cabinets, he would explore like a panther prowling the deep jungles. He made sure he was truly the king of all things and stood proudly on the very edge, facing the room he shared with me, and roared like a mighty lion.
As all people do in our ever-changing lives, I grew older and was soon interested in boys and cliques and fads. Some days I would come home and barely have time to give Leroy a kiss on the head before running back out again. Some days I would go directly to my room and cry for hours. Leroy would always find me there. He would sit close to me, or fight his way onto my lap. His luminous green eyes would shine up at me with understanding and sympathy. It’s okay, he always seemed to say. I love you. No matter how bad it was Leroy could make it better.
I was college-age now. I spent my summer after high school at the computer with Leroy in my lap. Leroy sensed my stress and fears and refused to leave my side. He knew something was happening to me, and he didn’t like it.
One day, I left with a couple of suitcases and never returned. He waited, knowing that sometimes the people in his family would go away, but they always came back. For weeks he acted the exact same way as usual, refusing to believe anything was different. He got his scratching sessions from my parents while waiting for me. When the weeks turned in to months, Leroy lost his faith. He would go to my room and sit on his spot on my bed. When he could no longer take the wait, he would cry for me until hoarse. My parents did their very best to console him and keep him happy, but there was an emptiness where I used to be. I know it sounds silly because to everyone else he was just a cat, but I regret leaving him.
Then, after a very long time, I came home. I looked different, smelled a little different, too, but he knew I was definitely his girl. I went to hold him. Leroy, being a proud lion at heart, acted as mad at me as possible for the first few minutes. After a good scratching session he was butter.
Still, the separation had changed things between us. I never slept in my old bed again. Leroy would watch me leave after every visit, then go sit on his spot on my bed and pretend I was there with him. He would curl up, purr for a little while, and drift off.
Time went by, we both grew older, and the separation between us remained the same. There were blessed moments when I would walk into my old room and wait for Leroy’s old bones to trot in after me. Once I was sure he had been purring long enough, I would hoist him up and let him spend time in The Closet. His old voice would crackle when he did his lion-roar, but the joy in it always made me smile. The only compromise was when I would snatch him up and set him down gently instead of letting him leap from the top shelf. I would kiss his head and tell him he was just too old to take such a fall. Leroy was nothing if not regal, and would not let my extra help damage his dignity.
Old bones, we started to say around him more and more. Leroy slept more than anything else. He ate less and got smaller. His fur began to lose its luster. He walked slowly and always started with stiff legs. He stayed like this for a while, unable to let himself become too elderly. The mighty Leroy Lion-Heart would never be called weak or tired. I stopped by a little more often and paid just a little more attention to him, knowing what was next. He was the first one to be greeted when I arrived, and the last to be kissed and hugged when I left.
One day, when no one else was home, I came for a long visit. We curled up on my old bed together and Leroy found his favorite spot. I scratched him behind his ears, under his chin, both of his cheeks, and finally his back. Once he was purring like an old car, I kissed his head, told him how much I loved him, and began to cry. Leroy looked up at me with his luminous green eyes and gave me his best attempt at a lion-like roar. Through my tears I smiled at him. I told him I knew he loved me and that I would be alright after a while. I gave him a final kiss on the head, a final hug, and left. Leroy purred, content, on his favorite spot on their bed, and drifted off.
I cried for days when my dad called and told me he found Leroy there. His grave is marked with roses, because he loved to chew on them the most. The little spot is blocked off to keep the dog away. A few feet under the ground, wrapped in his favorite blanket with his favorite old toy, my childhood friend rests peacefully, just the way he died.
It may be unusual to love something so simple so much, but I don’t care. His fleeting life meant more to me than most people I’ve met. That may be wrong in the opinion of some, but those who knew Leroy would understand. I keep all of our memories alive in my heart and I find comfort in them.
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