Dewey's Nine Lives

Spooky’s own health had been in decline for several years. He was almost twenty-one years old, and the feline AIDS was finally getting a grip on him. He had trouble keeping food in his stomach, and he was prone to terrible, body-shaking fevers. Now, without Zippo, he was lethargic and morose. He missed his buddy, his lazy best friend. When Bill came home from work every day, the first thing he did was close all the cabinet doors. Spooky opened them during the day, looking for Zippo.

Bill adopted another cat: a black kitten just like Zippo. He wanted Spooky to have a companion, but Spooky would have nothing do with the new cat. Spooky had never hated anyone or anything in his life (even those poor voles—that was just his hunter nature getting the best of him), but he did not want that little kitten around.

His fevers grew worse. Most days, he couldn’t keep food down. His body was failing on him, and he was sick at heart. In August, Bill took Spooky to Dr. Call, who told him Spooky was dying. There wasn’t anything he could do. Spooky had only a few days to live. And it was going to be a painful, difficult death.

Spooky was a survivor, a fighter, an adventurer and a lap sitter, a loyal friend and a constant companion for almost twenty-one years. He was the one who was there, by his side, when Bill needed him. He was the constant in Bill’s life. For years, he was his only true connection. He was his security, his lifeline on all those nights when the dreams were bad or the fear crept in. He always came back when Bill called him. And even at the end, he didn’t want to go. When most cats receive their final shot, they lie down and pass peacefully away. Spooky lunged when the needle touched his skin. He meowed and tried desperately to pull away. Then he turned, looked Bill in the eyes, and roared like a lion. Like he was fighting. Like he wasn’t ready to go. Like Bill had made a terrible mistake.

That scream was a hammer blow to Bill Bezanson’s heart. It haunted him. Dr. Call swore Bill had done the right thing, that Spooky had less than a week to live and that he was suffering terrible pain. But that scream ate him up inside. Spooky had wanted to live! Even in pain, even though he knew he was dying, he wanted to live.

A few weeks later, on September 11, 2001, the towers crumbled. Bill Bezanson looked up from his line job at Boeing and wondered if more planes were coming, if the helicopters were all shot down, if he was finally left behind. He missed Zippo. He missed Spooky. He missed the connection. He had lost the security of their presence. He felt, this time, that he was truly alone.

Then he received a letter with no return address. (He found out later it had been sent by Dr. Call’s office.) When he heard about Dewey’s death seven years later, he sent me a copy. “I know how you can mourn for a cat,” he wrote, “because I have done it myself.” He thought the note might help me because it had helped him. This is what it said:

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

I, Spooky Bezanson, being of poor health, do hereby bequeath to my friend and master, my last will and testament, to be recalled fondly whenever he may think of me.

My time on earth has been a happy time, full of joyful memories and carefree hours. I take with me no worldly possessions, because possessions and property have never been my primary concerns. What was important to me was earning your trust and praise, being obedient and always faithful. But the one thing I possessed and will cherish above all else was my master’s love, for no one could have loved me more.

When I am gone and you have occasion to think of me, do not feel sad, for I am at peace and no longer feel any discomfort or pain. All the maladies that age and circumstance had thrust upon my physical being are no longer a concern to me. I am free to romp with the wind at my face and the grass tickling my feet. I nap in the warmth of the sun and sleep under a blanket of stars. In this joy I wait for you.

Because we shared so many happy times together, I know you feel like I cannot ever be replaced and that perhaps you should live the remainder of your life without another pet as a faithful companion. My friend, don’t try to replace me, for what we shared is irreplaceable. We grew together, through some pretty hairy (and cold) times. But don’t deprive yourself of the warmth and love another companion can bring to you. I would not want you to be alone.

Most of all, remember, dear master, I will always be with you, in your heart, in your mind, and in your memories. For what we shared was special, today, tomorrow, and always. And if you should ever feel a cold nose on your skin, and there’s no animal around, just know, in your heart of hearts, it’s me, saying hello.