a good cat

Last night before I went to bed, I noticed I had a text message on my phone from my mom. I figured it was something about the Rays who were winning at that point. (They lost last night. They better win tomorrow. My mom needs them to win.)

Anyway, the text said simply, "Fulfy died."

***

When I was sixteen-years-old, I stopped at a marina gas station a few miles away with my grandfather in his little bass boat. We'd been out fishing and I had nothing on me but a towel and a bikini.

I heard a crazy sound, so I walked up to the porch of the gas station and saw an impossibly tiny little kitten covered in ants and making a completely godawful mewling sound. He was out in the sun in a cardboard box. I'd never been a cat person or owned a cat (my brother was allergic) but I couldn't help scooping up the angry little ball of tiger-striped fur. He scratched me all the way home. He was three-weeks-old.

My parents were out of town, so I drove him to the vet, bought a tiny bottle and some kitten formula, and spent the next days bottle-feeling a kitten every 3 hours around the clock. I named him Fulfy, for Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (as he was called in the movie Amadeus.)

He slept in my bed until I went to college and topped off at over eighteen solid pounds in his prime. He loved having his face scratched, had a tendency to jump into the bathtub. When I started taking George home with me on weekends, Fulfy would run straight to my bed and shit on it. Every time.

I have a little scar on my throat from his claws, and another on my collarbone. I'll always remember that they came from a badass scrappy cat who had a nice long kitty-life with the best kitty-grammy a cat could ask for. He died in his sleep out on my mom's back porch on October 16th, and I'm glad I knew him.