An Epitaph for my Neighbor's Dead Cat

Honestly, at first I was glad she moved in. Before her my neighbors were a loquacious gay couple, and they were nice enough, but they had a ginormous Great Dane that crapped in my yard without restraint. Now, my yard is just kind of there, I don't really spend much time in it, or do any gardening, or anything like that, so I wasn't really monitoring the poop that was steadily building up in my grass, but after excessive use of the flyswatter one deliriously hot day I decided to wrench open the screen door and check out my dying lawn and oh boy.

Then they moved out and I got them a moving-out gift which was a citronella candle and a five-dollar Benny's Books gift card. (I mean, Jeff Bezos was frugal, and look at him now.) And my new neighbor was Poppy Martinez – a sweet, soft-spoken girl with a degree in Economics and a really old, really fat ragdoll cat.

She invited me out for breakfast one morning. She ordered waffles and milk with cinnamon and I ordered black coffee and an omelette. "You know, I heard people who drink their coffee black are more likely to be psychopaths," she said lightly.

I was in the midst of drinking and swallowed a little too hastily. "Oh?"

"Yeah," she said, before hastily taking her phone out of her pocket. It had a glittery popsocket on the case and I'd caught a glimpse of her lockscreen and it was a picture of that old fat cat I'd seen in that crate when she moved in. "What's your cat's name?" I asked.

"Fitzwilliam," said Poppy with a sweet smile.

"Like Fitzwilliam from Pride and Prejudice?"

"Yes!" squealed Poppy excitedly. And just like, that, we somehow became friends. Kind-of friends. I don't really know, honestly. I'd only ever watched the movies.

//

About six months into our friendship – sorry, "friendship," I woke up and checked my phone to find a slew of texts, all from Poppy.

Fitzy's been throwing up and I'm not sure why –

I think I need to take him to the vet

OMG HES COUGHING UP BLOOD HELP

IM DRIVING TO THE VET RN

PLZ PICK UP

Along with quite a few missed calls. Still groggy, I called her back. "Poppy?" I droned. "Are you okay?"

"JACK!" she screamed angrily, so loudly that the speakers on my phone groaned with static. "JACK, I CALLED YOU SO MANY TIMES!"

"I was sleeping," I said.

"JACK, HE HAS TO BE PUT DOWN." Poppy's voice was shaking. "HE HAS TO BE EUTHANIZED."

"Oh," I said flatly.

Poppy gasped. "Oh? That's all you have to say? Oh? Fitzy – he was with me for fifteen years! I –" Poppy broke down crying. I sighed and hung up, placing my phone on my nightstand and running my hands through my hair. I didn't want to deal with this so early in the morning.

//

Later in the day I ran into Poppy. Her eyes were ringed with red. "You know, I should have seen the fact that you drink black coffee as a warning sign," she said, voice warbling.

"He's just a cat," I shrugged.

SMACK! Poppy raised her crimson-nailed hand, and it collided with my cheek so hard I tasted blood. Grabbing the side of my face, I tried really hard not to retch. "What was that for?" I said thickly.

But she was off. "Women," I moaned. Loud enough for her to hear, because I felt something knock on the back of my skull and saw a medium-sized pebble clatter to the ground beside my feet.

"You misogynistic cow!" shouted Poppy.

"I could sue you for assaulting me!" I yelled back.

"We're over, Jack! We're not friends anymore!"

"Whatever!"

Poppy began to cry loudly, right there on her balcony, noisily enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. My cheek was still throbbing, and my mouth still tasted like metal, and my head still hurt, and I was all for leaving Poppy there on her balcony and using the power of karma, but seeing her sobbing so hard and just walking away made me feel uneasy. I ran up the steps and grabbed her by the wrist; thankfully, she did not smack me away. "You might as well go inside and have your breakdown there."

I walked her into her house, seated her on her couch, and left.

//

I'm having a memorial service for Fitzy, read the text. Will you be there?

No.

...Jeez, you could have softened the blow.

He's – I almost said "just a cat." But I revised my response. He was old. I mean, that's life, isn't it?

So you're saying I shouldn't grieve?

I'm not telling you to do anything, you're the one having the funeral.

Fine, Jack.

//

Days stretched into weeks. I didn't talk or text to Poppy; whenever I encountered her on the street, I waved stiffly. I thought I was better off without all her cat drama and Jane Austen jabber in my life.

And yet I would wake up and stare at the ceiling fan and feel strangely lonely. Poppy and I weren't ever really "friends." It was a wholly one way thing; Poppy talked, and I endured. But Poppy had been, for months, my only contact outside of my family. And it all hit me in a wave of horrifying truth: no one else could stand me. I was a conceited, arrogant idiot. The fact that Poppy stayed with me for six months was nothing short of incredible.

And I had never seen friends at Poppy's house. She never told me she was going out; she never talked about her social life. Most of the time, I could spot her through my windows in her living room, curled up with her Kindle and angsty music thudding in the background. Fitzy was like what Poppy was to me – company. Maybe not a friend, but company. And now that he was gone, and I was gone too – Poppy was alone.

I ran out of the house with the franticness of a middle-aged guy having a midlife crisis and banged on Poppy's door. She answered, eyes narrowing when she saw me. "Jack."

"What are you doing?"

Poppy raised an eyebrow. "Painting a memorial for Fitzy. It's going to be displayed at the service.."

"Can I help?"

"Jack, what's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"A day ago you were avoiding me like the plague," said Poppy. "Were you poisoned?"

"No! I – I realized something," I said, going brick red. "I was – wrong. I was being hostile and I guess that's just me, I've always been that way – but you don't deserve it, and neither does Fitzy, I guess. Or his memory." I sighed. "Poppy, I'm sorry."

Poppy softened. "It's okay."

"Really? Just like that?"

"What, would you rather I stay mad?"

"No, not really – okay, cool. Thanks."

"I need an epitaph to put on my painting," said Poppy, leaning on the doorframe. "Something to commemorate Fitzy by."

"How about 'old, fat and lazy?'" I said. Letting go of my rude snark would not be easy.

"Get out before I smack you again," said Poppy, rolling up her sleeves.