Nikoli the Scientist: Ode to a Space Pet

“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.” — Anatole France

Five years today since we said goodbye, yet my eyes still play tricks on me — catching a glimpse of a shadow and somehow, subconsciously, thinking it might be you. For a fleeting moment, you’re still with me. Every now and then, I could swear I hear you meow.

Mini panther, house panther, you were well into adulthood by the time you chose us, though we never knew exactly how old you were. We knew nothing about your birth, so we told stories about the day you trotted up to your papa in the shelter, where he was filming a promotional video about the cats.

“Hey, dude, you gonna bust me out of this place, or what?”

Your shelter name was Trace, but you became our Nikoli the Scientist. “He’s a space pet,” we always added, as a point of clarification. We firmly believed you were planning to take over the world.

I’d never met a cat with so much sass. I think the word “cattitude” was created just for you. Are you still coaching your little brother and sisters from beyond the rainbow bridge? They may have surpassed you in sheer obstinance since you’ve been gone. You taught them well.

Four states and seven cities in sixteen years. You adjusted nicely to new environments but hated to travel. You howled from Chicago all the way to Indianapolis en route to North Carolina until you finally fell asleep in the back seat.

Leaving Virginia to move back to Ohio, you peed in your carrier about two miles out of town. We had to stop at a truck stop to get you cleaned up. We bought you a Dale Earnhardt Jr. blanket to replace the towel we had to pitch and joked about how you were the only NASCAR fan in the family.

Remember the house on Armitage Road, where we first brought you home? I didn’t live with your papa yet, but I visited a lot. You were an indoor-outdoor cat then, country living at its finest, but that was the last place you got to run free, until now.

We tried to take you for a walk on a harness in Chicago, so you could have some fresh air, but you went belly-down on the grass, flat as a pancake, and refused to move. You got quite fat that first couple of years until we switched you to canned food. You were lonely, so your papa and I eventually got a place together and I brought along Tommy and Emily to give you some company.

In North Carolina, you were ready to add to your stable of minions, so one day your papa opened the front door to get the paper, and what do you know? Two tiny kittens appeared.

(Yes, we’re still telling that tired old joke:

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“KITTENS!!!”)

He went to get them some food and promptly locked himself out. You spent the day in the garage with him. By the time I got home from work that night, we knew the kittens had found a home.

And then we had five. Five cats. All indoors. We’re convinced you planned it all, lured those kittens to the house.

The Notorious Five Kitteh Gang. You were Black Ice, their esteemed leader.

Nothing but cancer could have taken you down, and even then, you outlasted all predictions. You were stubborn like that.

Saying goodbye was devastating, and it was especially hard for your dad. Eventually, you stopped eating and grew weaker. You never hid from us, though, wanting cuddles and love even as you were telling us it was time.

It’s such a cruel trick, the short lives of our beloved pets. And yet letting them go is the last, best gift we can give them.

We stayed with you until the end, petting you and speaking softly so you’d know we were there. Then we went home and held each other and cried. We didn’t leave the house all weekend. Even though we’d been prepared, we were simply gutted. There is no preparation for grief.

You had a good run, though, my darling Nikoli. Did you actually make it to 20? We’ll never be quite sure. But one thing’s for certain — you put your inimitable mark on the world around you, and especially on our hearts. We’ll always love you, we’ll never forget you. We’ll see you beyond the rainbow bridge.

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