For Hank.
Hank was medium-sized, about twelve pounds, and about as unremarkable-looking as a cat could be. He was a mitted tabby, with grey-brown stripes and a ringed tail, a patch of white fur on his chest and little white socks of fur on each paw. He had big green eyes, a pink nose smudged with black, and a mild underbite that gave him a goofy look when I scratched his chin. He was beautiful, and he was perfect; he was my best friend.
Hank had a kind of charm, a way of being in the world that was irresistible to everyone who met him. He marched in and out of rooms with a confident, shoulder-rolling gait. He was gregarious and friendly; when friends came to the house he would greet them at the door like a nightclub owner. He was smart, and had the instincts of a burglar; when we tried using an automatic feeder he immediately figured out how to break it open and spill food everywhere. He constantly stole food, from counters and plates and frying pans. We once found a large ball of mozzarella cheese under our bed that he’d hidden there, like some kind of secret treasure. He knew how doors and doorknobs worked, though he got frustrated when he couldn’t quite get his paws to open them. He knew exactly which cabinet held his favorite treats, and he’d wander into the kitchen and look up at it expectantly and then look straight at me and meow.
When he first came to live with us, not even a year old, he stomped around our apartment, yowling, immediately claiming it all as his territory. His adopted brother, Buster, was frightened and hid under the bed for a few weeks, but Hank drew him out and soon we found them snuggled up together in a basket, fast asleep. Before we’d adopted him, the animal shelter told us they would put him in cages with other stray cats who were sick or depressed because he would cheer them up.
He was lazy and he slept constantly; draped over windowsills and curled up in baskets of clean laundry. He was demanding; even greedy. He would walk on our heads as we slept and meow loudly in our faces in the dawn twilight, asking to be fed. He would eat, messily, and then scramble around the house chasing treats until he meowed and I picked him up and draped him over my shoulder. I carried him from room to room like a little tyrant as he purred against my cheek, burping like an infant. In the morning after his breakfast he would curl up on my lap and fall asleep, snoring softly, and he would dream. He was always hungry, not just for food but for attention, for touch, for anything that tasted or smelled or felt good. He loved eating, nuzzling, napping, watching birds, and feeling the warm caress of the sun.
But for Hank these things were not just creature comforts. They were the real stuff of life, in its simple, bare goodness. Everything he needed to know could be learned from a bite of stolen chicken or the touch of a loving friend. Just being in the world was enough; just being here, just being, was miraculous all on its own. It seemed that for Hank, everything and everyone had been laid out just for him, all in its right place, all perfect. And because everything was always just as it should be, he radiated love out into the world, and loudly demanded love back from it. Both the world and I were happy to give it to him.
Thirteen years is a good long life for a cat, and I suppose I should just be grateful for the time I got to spend with him. But I’m greedy too.
