....But Not Forgotten

On the far left of the multi-matted frame, the sweet face stared back at her. Remembering, his eyes, the color of single malt whiskey. Such a strong contrast to the gray fur. He had shown up on new years day 1999, they had just purchased a small farm, after their return from Texas. Had spent the first day of the year doing the final clean-up, brought the horses, groceries, and a bed, movers expected early the next day.

Sara pulled the shall gently back over her shoulders as she leaned back in her chair, the fire crackled on the viewscreen, in her room. Glancing out the window to snow swirling, a similar day to the one in 1999.

"We named him Fred, I should start at the beginning, when we walked with our friends out to their truck to say goodbye, there he sat by the barn door, I remember saying.

Who's cat it this, Fred did you bring him with you? I had asked as I picked him up. His answer was.

"UH, not me, don't blame that dump on me, city people going away skiing, they just dump them on the way out of town, then Fred reached to scratch the cat behind the ears.

He weighed nothing, poor guy, shivering, needed some warm milk, some food, I felt sorry for the poor fella, I reached under, he was neutered. Lucky us.

We waved off our friends and opened the barn door.

I said to Bruce, 'Bruce, make him a bed, there are some old towels, leg bandages, a couple cat pads, in one of those cupboards. Put Maxine's bowls next to it, I'll fetch some milk and a crate. Glad we brought food today. it's warmer in the tack room, set him up in there, I told him, and left the barn.

Bruce got the cat comfortable, he ate what was in the bowl, was starting to wash his face when I returned with warm milk.

We moved him into the crate where he seemed to be comfortable, left the door open, fluffed his bedding, he drank the milk, we refilled the bowls, in case he got hungry during the night. Scratching him behind the ears, I laughed when I heard him start to purr, sounded like a steam engine barreling down the tracks.

What are we going to call him? Brace just looked at me and said, Fred."

"That was how we came to have Fred," she recollected, "he turned out to be a wonderful mouse hound, companion, and lived in that barn 17 years. He disappeared a few days after Bruce's funeral. I like to think he decided to go with Bruce." she stopped and sipped her tea.

The photo second from the left she touched, "now this one was Mrs. Max. There's a story." She laughed, letting her mind drift as her unsteady hand moved slowly over the photo.

"Bruce was on his way home in the rain, it was cold, almost the end of fall, rolling into winter. A tiny kitten crawled out of the ditch. "How did he ever see her, I will never know but, lucky for her he did."

Looking around the room, her new home at 'The Seniors Lodge, she took in a deep breath.

"Let's see, where was I. That was almost fifty years ago. Fifty, it is like it was yesterday.... she was so small and ever so sick. The vet said she might have been six weeks old, also would have been dead by morning, if Bruce had not stopped and picked her up. I remember three weeks of drugs and vet bills for a half-dead tiny kitten."

The door opened and another caregiver came in to listen.

"That little black calico Manx passed just before her seventeenth birthday. There was not a day she was not loved or cared for. Originally was named Maxine but, soon earned the distinction of 'Mrs.' she could hunt like no other. She was relentless! Dragging home prey twice her size, to share with us. I remember once we counted eleven dead goffers spread out over our lawn, her sitting watching over them, like a hunter back from the kill." Sara smiled.

"Then there was El Clinto, he also answered to Clint Eastwood, his namesake. A huge Manx orange tabby, who was meaner than a junkyard dog. He really was mean. Except with me."

"No one could pet him, pick him up, get close, was just mean.

For some reason he tolerated me, he slept on the foot of our bed, he let me pet him, pick him up. I even kissed him a few times, Which he hated, would growl like a dog. He never got sick in his life, he hunted with Mrs. Max, they became the best of friends, he weighed close to 17 pounds, twice the size of her. He had the richest golden orange tabby color with a bit of white on his face and a pink nose. The most beautiful amber eyes, that could look right through you."

"I got Clint from a Manx breeder, he had not been socialized as he was born under an outbuilding. After I brought him home, I visited him in our tack room every day for about a week, sat with him, talked to him, fed him, he was behind a box and never came out. I remember him merging from tack room for the first time, he was about seven weeks old. Snuck under my chair where I was having coffee just outside the barn, he got brave enough to climb up my leg and sit on my lap. I never moved, did not want to scare him, he fell asleep. I think that was the day he started to trust me. We moved him to the house as soon as he was using the litter box and he too lived seventeen years. In the end, I was with him when he walked over the rainbow bridge.

I did not know I remembered all that."

Sara wiped a tear, so did a couple of the caregivers, they all smiled.

"Great stories Sara, we will be back for more.

Welcome to the lodge."

After they left, she held the framed on her lap and drifted off. To where we will never know, can only imagine, she never awoke.