Duffy

For the most wonderful cat I've come to know.

My cat died. She died in the house where her fur coats the surface of every couch. She hadn’t moved in a half-a-day’s time, falling in and out of sleep, waiting. I think she knew it was time.

Duffy had been sick for a little bit, growing visually weaker by the day. We never knew her age, maybe sixteen. I saw her for the last time during an abridged visit home, the median between my stints in Boston and Los Angeles. Her hearing had depleted and she walked slowly and wobbly. Her coat lacked its shine. However she persisted as the selectively affectionate cat we had known for thirteen years. I think she knew it was me. I want to believe she recognized me.

The last photo I took of Duffy.

We adopted Duffy when I was eight-years-old. Legend has it, she was discovered as a mere stray, orphaning a kitten that wasn’t her own. A boy and his mother scooped her up and out of the busy intersection where she scavenged and plopped her at the local humane society.

The town Petco housed a weekly roundup of cats for adoption for which my mother and I entered with intention, our eyes on another cat we found online. That rascal proved to be a jumper, posing a threat to our countertops. Yet, across that sterile room, there stood a cat, one-foot tall at her best effort. Her right eye droopier than the left. A nick on her left ear, a battle scar. She bore every color of the cat rainbow, her stomach a light tan, yet the crooks of her toes a deep, outlining black. Her tail like that of a raccoon, striped and too tall for her stumpy stature.

Among the first pets, she was gentle and purred. She calmly roamed the cold floor, and I was transfixed by her walk that treaded so softly. But it wasn’t before long she started hacking. And, wham, a hairball!

“This one,” I told my mom. Yeah, the sickly grimy one with the deformed eye and stubby legs. She’s perfect.

And that January afternoon, as if the prophecy foretold, Duffy became my cat.

It must be terrifying to be a cat, especially a cat of Duffy’s size. I would also immediately dash downstairs to hide from strange human “owners.” She remained in our basement for days before finally laying her eyes on lands uncharted. The couch quickly transformed into her solace, whereas the doorway to the basement established itself as her “safe” space. Because of the efficient escape route, and all.

By then, it had only been a month since Darby had died. Darby was my mother’s trial run with keeping a thing alive before giving birth to me. She adopted him in his kittenhood shortly after finishing her master’s. He was a big orange cat who was equal parts loving and aloof. Being a second-grader, I hadn’t quite grasped the reality of what losing Darby meant to my mother. He was the bridge between her 20-something years that blossomed into whatever nuclear-ish suburbia we exist amongst today. Darby was every bit of my mother, they were entwined.

Duffy was my cat like Darby was hers. Nevertheless the pain holds strong, for now Duffy and I are both gone, though in different ways. It’s an empty house, just my parents and the memories that precede the present.

I’ve, in brief, been situationally an only child before I hit double-digits. This means Duffy was my pet as well as a pseudo sibling. Corny, yes, but there was no one better to talk at. A rare constant amidst the tears of adolescence and trials of the household. Countless days spent laying in the sun, watching TV, and hiding from my parents’ party guests. Together, both shy, both unknowing.

Though our relationship became estranged in the tenth year as a consequence of my commitment to higher education, my parents sporadically sent me photos of her on their crappy Android phones. That was enough in the meantime. “Say hi to Duffy for me.”

I can’t say I was surprised when my parents uncharacteristically called to break the news. None of us are oblivious to decay. I’ve dealt with death like everyone else. I’ve had close family die, I’ve had a friend die. Of course, Darby too, now my Duffy. It’s one of the few facts of life, and for that you shouldn’t be afraid. It fucking blows though. The suddenness, the permanency. The brain isn’t hardwired for unfixable outcomes.

I want to stop envisioning her lifeless body on that couch. I want to bend reality. I want my mother to be healed of her distress, the guilt she felt putting her down without consulting me. I want just one more minute with Duffy.

But my cat is dead. And I’ve accepted that.

Her death is greater than I can perceive currently. It’s easy to be retrospectively nostalgic, yet difficult to be holistically grateful for the good. The Duffy-sized hole in my heart may never be filled. I don’t need it to be. That’s what was – is – special about her.

My girl forever.