The Great Grey Tabby

From: Annie (celticred@msn.com)
Story type: Ghost
Location: South Jersey, USA
Source: Form Submission

From the time my daughter and son were about 7 and 5 years old respectively, we had a grey tabby named Smokey. Smokey was the most lovable, civilized cat I ever knew. (I've had many cats through my life; I loved tham all dearly, but Smokey was special.) He always bonded with the oldest child in the family; sort of a natural trait for him, I guess. I say this because years before I had lived with a man for a while as we decided if we wanted "blend" former families. His son, who lived with us, was older than my children, and Smokey was "his" cat. When things did not work out, and my friend and I went our separate ways, Smokey bonded to my daughter - once again the oldest child in the family. Years went by, and she went off to college. Then Smokey adopted my son, who was still at home.

Even so, Smokey always preferred my daughter, and when she came home from college, no one mattered but her. But when she was absent, again he went to my son for comfort. That was how things were for years.

Smokey was getting on in years, outliving many cats, well-cared-for or not, and I began preparing my now nearly adult children for the eventuality of Smokey's death. In September, 1995, he took to spending many hours on my daughter's bed (he always stayed with her when she was home), so I simply thought he missed her. That fall semester started only a few days before, and once again my daughter had packed up and moved out. How could that loyal cat possibly understand? Perhaps in his feline way he was simply expressing his sadness. He never cried; he did not seem sick; he simply slept in her room. In time I had to coax him to eat; he lost weight, and I became worried. I took him to the veterinarian and learned the worst.

Smokey had an incurable, rapidly progressing form of feline cancer. My son was devastated when I told him. I thought if he feels this bad and refuses to accept Smokey's fate, how much worse will it be when I have to tell my daughter? But Smokey did not have much time left, and I knew their bond was too strong for him to leave this world willingly without first saying goodbye to his "oldest in the family." So I called my daughter,and she rushed home the next day to spend a few final days with "her" Smokey.

Now my son's despair was diffused a little because a few months earlier a proud black stray had followed him home. And this is a story in itself! Suffice it to say, that black cat was far from tame. Left to his own as one more family moved out of the condos in our neighborhood, this cat became almost feral trying to survive. He loved my son alone and stayed in his room. This was not a social cat; life had dealt him a bad hand early on, and he was still recovering from those scars. Socializing Hobbes would take a lot of time and effort. But we felt he was worth it.

By the time my daughter got home, Smokey was in a bad way. He could barely make it to the litter box. I did everything the vet told me to ease his pain. He had lost so much weight the tumor in his midsection was obvious to the most callous; he barely ate and when he did, he usually did not keep it long. We started to feed him with an eyedropper. The vet gave us his home phone number, in case of emergency, he said. We knew what that meant.

My daughter bundled Smokey in her best blanket that cold November and sat for hours and hours over the Thanksgiving weekend talking to him, soothing him, and coaxing him to eat with the small eyedropper. He got weaker and weaker but just would not let go. Finally the time came. It was cruel to make him endure more. We had to take him in.

We stayed with the doctor while he prepared us - and Smokey.

A few minutes later we gathered up his favorite blanket and got back in the car. I thought my daughter was going to cry. But I suppose there is enough of my ancient ancestors' blood still running through my veins for me to believe in the eternal renewal of life. And I said to her, "Honey, please don't cry. If I know Smokey, he was in this car before we were."

Well, I got a smile from her at least.

The next few days were terrible. I had to go to work right after putting him down. I cried on break in the ladies room, and then much more when I got home. We all tried to comfort each other at home, but we missed Smokey.

The third night after his death, I came home from work, sat down in a corner of the living room, tissues in hand. I missed that darned cat so much! I started crying again. And then out of nowhere, my son's new cat came bounding down the stairs - thump, thump, thump - and practically sprang across the room right into my lap! As I said before, this was NOT a social cat! At first I halfway expected him to attack me. His life had been a living nightmare before we brought him in. But what did he do? He started licking my face - right cheek, left cheek, eyes, throat, hands - just like Smokey used to do. And then he let out a typical Smokey "meow" when he wanted me to know he was happy.

Did Smokey borrow Hobbe's body to let us know he was okay? I will always wonder, but that strange black cat has been much closer to me since that fateful night.

Throughout that winter I heard Smokey from time to time in the house. He had a "meow" unique to himself alone. I knew Smokey came home with us, at least for a while, until his transition was complete. And sometimes I imagine that great grey tabby pouncing and springing through mountainside meadows as I sit stroking Hobbes late into the evening, watching TV.