Saying goodbye to our Bombadil

This is a story about my sweet kitty boy. Rest in peace, precious Bubby.

A Bombadil-shaped space

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The new kitten signed her name

on this word doc.

Prowling across the keyboard

to claw her way up my shirt

and bite my face. I almost forgot,

kittens tend to leave marks,

though they’re the kind that heal on their own.

We never knew you as a kitten.

You forced your way into our lives

one cold, bitter January day.

We didn’t want you.

You hissed

and bit with strong teeth

and your claws were like dragon claws.

But then we thought,

nobody else would want you either.

You didn’t want us

or our bumpy-hummy car

or the gray striped meanie who awaited you,

hissing and swatting.

But you did appreciate your new big litter box

and the view from the sliding glass door.

You spent your first few days with us

curled in the corner,

tip-toeing around your new sister,

looking over your shoulder with every bite from your food bowl.

No one touch me, you said.

I’m done trusting anyone. 

And we were okay with that. Our reward was you 

not living in a glass box anymore,

you blinking lazily at us

with those icy blue eyes,

you allowing me to give you a bow tie,

the finishing touch on your tuxedo.

The first time you slept on our bed,

you appeared like a ghost in the middle of the night,

gone by morning.

The distance between us on the couch

closed slowly

until one day you curled up against my legs.

I could’ve cried.

When you sat with us we’d barely breathe

lest we break the spell.

You were our anxious boy,

the sour patch kid of cats.

The hard-shelled protagonist

with a mysterious backstory. We named you Bombadil

because you were impossible to quantify.

A walking contradiction,

distant and tender,

fierce hunter, pathetic beggar

cinnamon roll and stretchy dough.

Grouchy, wizened, playful and patient.

You would’ve liked the new kitten

because she’d be afraid of you,

properly, like a kitten should be. 

Don’t worry, she hasn’t replaced you.

I still hear you scratch at the window,

still expect to laugh at you 

trotting alongside the car pulling into the driveway,

still see you in a pile of laundry

that in the shadows

could be you, stretched out long in the heat.

We didn’t deserve you, 

but you made us your home anyway,

even as you knew

you were too adventurous for this world.

If you get the chance,

between walkabouts among the stars,

Tell God to scratch your chin

for me.

Bombadil (8/4/18-6/1/21)