A Letter to Lucius the Cat

Lucius,

You came into my life starved for food, attention and love. Soon after I adopted you into my Fort Greene flat I thought I killed you with a dumb cane flower from Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Your chin swelled up to three times it’s size after you nibbled on the poisonous plant. I was racked with guilt, but you survived. 

You terrorized Mona the cat, came between my boyfriend Tim and I, but I never held it against you. Soon, we moved on up to South 1st street in Williamsburg, to a big old bedroom with lots of windows for you to watch the Puerto Rican schoolchildren across the street, blizzards, and an Ethan Hawke movie filmed on our intersection. During the muggy summer I melted ice cubes on your hot fur to cool you down. You hated the New York heat.

I had to leave you for months when I returned to California. I worried you would think you’d been abandoned again. I left you with an engraved collar that disappeared under our roommate Agata’s watch. Edward brought you to Oakland on an airplane. He was grumpy in the airport because you were so heavy. 

I snuck you into to the sunny studio on Laguna street in San Francisco, with big bay windows, in the art deco building where cats weren’t allowed. We stayed there 3 and a half years. I took a series of polaroids of friends holding you on the big magnolia-decorated vintage couch. The polaroids lived on the fridge - a permanent art installation.

Next, we moved to Dolores Street, to a Victorian flat with three 19-year-old girls, including my sister Melissa and her best friend Ari. You insisted I keep the door open at night so you could walk in and out of the bedroom. It made it hard to sleep with all those roommates. When painters put up scaffolding to paint the building, Liz left her window open, so you jumped out and jogged on the wooden planks, past my bedroom window, to the living room window, peering in from outside, looking matter-of-fact. I panicked and tried to get you in the house. You developed a habit of pawing at Ari’s head while she watched TV, then viciously attacking her scalp. She still loved you.

Next we moved to a 2 and a half bedroom Victorian worker’s cottage in Fruitvale Oakland. The house was surrounded by stray cats and chihuahuas. Occasionally large stray dogs wandered over from the pound, a few blocks away. We kept you inside. Stray kittens sometimes snuck in the back door to eat your food in the kitchen. You let it happen. You claimed the guest bedroom for yourself. 

Your last stop was the house I grew up in in Santa Cruz - the nicest place you ever lived. Two-stories, high ceilings, a porch to lounge on and watch the birds, including the neighbors’ fat chickens. Your new sister cat, the beautiful Fritz moved in around Thanksgiving with her person, Kimo. You were intrigued and sometimes picked on Fritz, but she knew how to stand up for herself. Once she scratched you good on your pure white nose, leaving a thin red scab that lingered for days. 

When baby Wilder came home we let you and Fritz explore the outside world. At first you were timid. You slept in the closet during the day. Then, one day, I looked out the window and saw your bright white and dark grey fur against the sparkling blond dry grasses on the banks of the lagoon. You were exploring, looking exquisite in contrast with the natural world. You looked like an exotic creature, a stuffed animal come to life. You sat still, facing the lagoon, ears twitching. I swooned.

A few days later I spotted you sitting on the church property across the way and watched you climb underneath a storage building. A short time later you emerged and walked down a zig zag path towards the center of the church camp. Brave house cat!

The last time I saw you, you slept between my calves. I woke up at 2am to attend to the baby and you hopped out of bed. You must have gone outside. I didn’t know you were in the habit of exploring at night. I knew something was wrong when you weren’t there for breakfast. I looked for you in the afternoon. Fritz was acting strange, staring out from the deck all day. She’d tried to lead my downstairs early in the morning. Did she see you? She knew something was wrong. 

Kimo found your body in the greenery between the ice plant and the lagoon, your midsection missing a crescent-shaped piece. Completely gone. Coyotes? Its the last thing I expected for you - a violent, natural death. You were grumpy, but you were a very domestic cat, like a big stuffed toy. 

We buried you under the redwood tree I planted as a child. I added your rainbow catnip toy that drove you mad with ecstasy and a bouquet of dried flowers tied with a green ribbon. Kimo took care of the details of burial. I couldn’t bear to see your lifeless body. 

A few days later you had to be reburied in our backyard. Animals had tried to dig up your grave. My mom brought a ceramic praying angel to place on your grave.

You brought me great joy and gave me love. Amused me and worried me. We lived together for ten years, from Brooklyn to Santa Cruz, from 25 to 35. I miss you every day.

I love you Lucius. 

Your human forever,

Madeline