You Never Know When You’re Saying Good-Bye

Most “Good-Byes” mean “I’ll see you when I see you again.” — Until that last “Good-Bye.”

I live next door to a snooty, stuck-up cat. Yeah, I know, that describes most cats, but Lotus was a bit different.

Lotus would be released by his owner (some would say Lotus was the owner and Millie was the obedient servant, but I digress) early each morning and then again at dusk each evening.

He would survey the property — both at his own address and my own backyard. I’m sure his reach extended beyond these two property lines, but I didn’t follow his life closely enough to know for sure.

For three years, Lotus would stalk his prey (he was pretty successful, according to his obedient human servant) and return home after the successes or failures of any particular day — sometimes with a trophy in his mouth.

Although I am not a pet owner (my nomadic lifestyle would be unfair to any four legged critter) I do enjoy passing moments with the beloved (well-behaved?) pets of friends and neighbors.

It was no different with Lotus. Most days, in the early years, as he passed through my backyard, I would call out to him with a friendly greeting.

“Hey Lotus! How’s it going? Did you bag a mouse or chipmunk today?”

Lotus may or may not have returned my friendly offerings with a dismissive glance. He may have totally ignored me. He may have darted off in a different direction. It was his choice on any given day.

And so it went for three years.

My relationship with Lotus changed this summer.

Lotus acquired a new “brother” this summer — a fluffy, little dust mop-style puppy moved in the same house where the elder statesman, Lotus, once reigned supreme.

“Casper” was young (only months old), energetic (undisciplined?) and ready to play.

Lotus, as his human servant told me, wanted nothing to do with this rambunctious beast — instead, he chose to seek out the companionship of new people — people who might give undivided attention to his ephemeral mood swings — those people, I must say, being “me.”

It started innocently enough.

I was sitting on the deck, glass of wine in one hand, a book in the other — a typical early/mid/late summer pleasure in my life.

Lotus strolled on by in the backyard, doing his typical early/mid/late summer pleasure in his life.

I called out — “Lotus, how are you buddy?”

At first he threw his typical dismissive turn of the head in my direction. No harm, no foul — I was doing me, Lotus was doing Lotus.

Suddenly, Lotus made a turn, slowly approached the steps leading to the deck and made his way across the deck in my direction. His rubbed his head against my leg while I cooed reassuringly to let him know I was nothing to fear.

Slowly, I reached down for a few gentle strokes on his head and back — and he let me! Lotus actually accepted and returned signs of affection!

After a few minutes of this cuddling, Lotus stretched out on the deck in front of me. I went back to my wine and my book and we spent a relaxing twenty minutes or so basking in the early summer warmth and breezes. I threw a few reassuring comments in his direction. He occasionally purred in return.

For reasons known only to Lotus, he got up and started back across the deck. He returned to his home, his life’s mission complete for one day, to retire for the evening in the home he now shared with Casper.

From that day on, my relationship with Lotus was greatly improved. He started wandering past my sliding deck doors. He would stop, take a peek inside and, I swear to you this is true, he would tip his head in greeting to me.

Periodically, Lotus would join me on the deck. He would nuzzle my leg, I would pet his head. He never overstayed his welcome. He never demanded anything more than a bit of loving attention.

Whether it was early morning or early evening, Lotus made his rounds. I often saw him from my bedroom window, on the prowl, stalking whatever hapless rodent might be scurrying around. He was a fixture in my summer world.

A few days ago, while looking out the bedroom window, I could see Lotus walking through the mulch, poised to attack whatever he thought was hiding under a bush. I smiled. This was my Lotus at his best, doing what he seemed to love most. Another day, like many before, when seventeen-year-old Lotus carried out his life’s work, never missing a day, never abandoning his station.

I called out, “Hey Buddy,” even though I knew he couldn’t hear me. I was doing it more for myself than for him. I felt sure I would see him in person sometime in the next day or two.

This morning, while eating my English muffin and sipping my coffee in the kitchen, I noticed Millie (Lotus’ human) walking around my deck. She was clearly searching for something. She was clearly a little frantic.

I stepped out on the deck, already knowing what she was looking for.

“Lotus didn’t come home last night. He hasn’t been feeling well the last few days, not eating or drinking as he should.” I could feel the tears in her voice.

Lotus is not my pet, but I feel a pain in my heart because I know that an older, sickly cat may not survive a night in an area where our township warns the owners of small pets about the dangers of the wild coyotes that seem to have minimal fear of humans.

I know a sickly pet may choose to find a secluded area to lay down and die, sparing the humans who care for him from watching his final moments.

I know my “hellos” and “good-byes” may no longer be directed at my new found feline friend.

What I didn’t know was that the last time I said “Good-Bye” to Lotus would be the last time I would say “Good-Bye” to Lotus.

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