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Silly
 Over the years, a multitude of animals have lived with me and each creature has possessed a unique and colorful personality.
There was Doggina, a gentle, devoted border collie; Fred, a mutt who never trusted two-legged folks; and Teddie, the rat-terrier who sometimes seemed to apologize for existing at all.
All of my critters have been strays, and often, although they slept in my lap, ate my food and developed a sense of belonging, most were scarred, both literally and figuratively.
My old cat, Silly, frequently caused visitors to inquire as to his age since he gave the impression of being ancient.
In actual fact, he was only 12 when he died recently; however, his tattered ears, knobby head, squinting eye, pepper-and-salt fur and broken teeth suggested that he was an old warrior who had survived several decades of feline combat.
Alas, with the exception of a single youthful encounter with a groundhog, Silly spent his entire life coping with a daunting series of ailments, all the result of his encounter with Roger (the groundhog).
In short, Silly simply had lousy luck.
Some six years ago, the groundhog (who still lives in my garden) killed Tigger, Silly’s brother, and left Silly with a shredded hide, broken teeth and a score of sprains and fractures that plagued him the rest of his life. Although his wounds healed, each scar seemed to beget more afflictions.
In addition, Silly’s splayed feet and graceless posture, warped features and mangy hide rendered him‚ well, ugly. Children did not rush to pet him and adults tended to whisper “Get away,” when he rubbed against their legs.
So, Silly spent most of his time alone, sprawled on his back in awkward abandon in the top shelf of my bookcase or in a box of rags in the attic or (his favorite) the lavatory in the bathroom.
Even the other cats avoided him, and as the years passed, he spent more time in the garden, pretending to hunt or sleeping in abandoned rabbit holes. Since he was an inept hunter, Silly – to my knowledge – never killed anything, although I did find him on one occasion asleep and curled around three baby rabbits (alive and uninjured).
In recent years, my Jack Russell (Jack) sometimes wakes me at 3 a.m. to let me know that “something” is in the kitchen. The first time this happened, I crept through the dark house armed with a hammer and a flashlight expecting to find a convention of rats or possums raiding my cupboard.
Instead, when I turned on the light, I found Silly. He was playing! I stood amazed as Silly scampered, rolled on his back, sprung to the countertop, flattened his tattered ears and attacked his own tail. Silly, all alone (and vitally alive), played with shadows and frolicked with imaginary playmates.
What struck me was his grace and agility. Alone, in my dark kitchen, he seemed sleek and quick as a tiger. Despite his sprains and fractures, he was having fun. If I sometimes worried about the quality of Silly’s life and wondered if his existence had not reached the point where it was more pain than joy, these nighttime play sessions belied all of that.
However, things changed a couple of months ago. Silly’s abscessed teeth began to bleed and his lower jaw drooped and appeared to be dislocated. A trip to the vet confirmed the worst.
The combined problems of an ulcer, an enlarged kidney, and a disoriented stare suggested that this time my old cat would not rally. He was also experiencing considerable pain. I noted that when the vet probed Silly’s body, scratched his nappy head and caressed the fur on his back, my feeble cat was beside himself with enjoyment. Someone was petting him! He rolled over on his back and gave the vet a lopsided grin.
After I acknowledged his bleak future, Silly was “put to sleep.” All of his aches and pains ceased in a moment. However, I prefer to think that in this instance, “sleep” was a wonderful gift because it was devoid of discomfort.
In the weeks since old Silly stopped sleeping in my bookcase, Jack has alerted me a number of times to “something” in the kitchen at 3 a.m. I haven’t gone to verify it, but I prefer to think that it is Silly, still playing in the shadows. In my mind’s eye, I see him racing, rolling over and springing to the countertop with the agility of a jungle cat.
I would like to think that he still lives with me.
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