Alastor

~Edd

Most posts we do are for you. Sure we’re pandering to our own egos, but we genuinely thinks the things we say and do will be interesting, insightful, or at least entertaining for you, the audience. This one is for me.

My cat, Alastor, died this morning. It was unexpected. I woke up at about 7:30 AM, because he was meowing for me to feed him, as usual in the morning. I woke up, fed him, and went back to sleep. He was fine, and normal: Purring, bumping my hand out of the way when I put his food down like he was starving to death… fat little bastard. Around 11:30 AM my roommate wakes me up and says, “Eddie… I think Alastor passed away.” He was already stiff. There was nothing around his mouth, no injuries, nothing to indicate how he died. He had been eating fine, and acting completely normal… until he wasn’t acting at all.

I went to home depot and bought a shovel. That was one of the most melancholy drives I’ve taken in a long time. I came back and buried him in the back yard. The soundtrack to the movie The Fountain played while I dug a grave. It was overly dramatic and macabre, but fuck it. I was sad.

Named after the Harry Potter character, Alastor “Mad Eye” Moody was the one-eyed, ginger cat that I rescued about a year ago. Nobody knew at the rescue how he lost his eye, so I said he lost it in the Wizarding Wars, and that “you should see the other guy.” He spent the first 3 weeks with me under my bed, and the next 3 months jumping at shadows. After that, he got fat and it was constant tail-up happiness. He got to the point where he would approach strangers and was curious, not frightened, of visiting people and animals. He was happy. He was perfect.

I got Alastor because I wanted to help. Several days prior, Riss and Rob left my place, and called a little after and said that there was a cat with no face outside, it was a weird conversation.  Later that day I left for whatever reason, and the cat was still there. It was sitting, bread loaf style, facing away from traffic in the very middle of the street. I pulled up next to it, my tire literally about 8 inches from it. It didn’t move. I made some noises behind it, still it didn’t move. Then I reached out to touch it. When I touched its back, it turned its head to me and my heart died. Its face was gone, probably rotted away from a wound or something. It made a noise. Not a cry, or a hiss, more like a despondent and resigned sigh. I had intended to help the cat, or get it to move, but looking at it, and it “looking” at me, I realized it had chosen this place to die. It hoped to get hit by a car and end it. I nodded, knowing it didn’t see me, but I wanted it to know I understood and respected its decision. I drove away and tried to call animal control, shelters, the sheriff, 911. They were either closed or didn’t care. Nobody could help this faceless and pitiful creature. I came back later and the cat wasn’t where I had left him. I found it on the crosswalk not far from where it was before. It had gotten its wish.  I cried.

Purrfection

I’m gonna be really candid for a second, and tell you that this shit fucked me up. I had dreams about this poor cat. I thought about it for days. There was nothing I could do to help it, but I wanted to help. I looked online at some of the cat rescues in town, and what is the first damn cat I see? A one-eyed orange cat named Archie. It was like a sign. I couldn’t save the no-eyed cat, but I could save this one-eyed one, and that was a start. I met him, and was told that he hated to be held, and he was super skittish. After we coaxed him out and I had tentatively played with him for a bit, I picked him up and talked to him. He stressed for about 3 seconds, then relaxed into me. He knew what I was about. We had a mutual respect.

Alastor was derpy, and bossy, and fat, and I loved him very much. He was sweet, and loving, and only stank sometimes. He was the loudest purring cat I’ve ever met, and all it took was looking in his direction to set it off. His claws were sharp, but he hated them to be clipped, and my GOD did he shed! Everything I own has an orange patina. He would always rub up against my legs when I was still wet from the shower, so the inside of all my pants are fur-lined. He had zero chill, and would routinely watch me in the bathroom. I felt bad that I was gone a lot, but he was always happy to see me when I returned.  I have no idea how he died, but he didn’t seem to be sick, or in pain, or anything. He never complained about anything unless I was slow with his food. But I do know that he was loved, and he had a happy home, and that’s enough, I guess. I’ll miss you buddy.