Handsomest Boy

Because of the abrupt and traumatic way Ozzy left our lives last week, it's hard for me to erase the images of the final moments we had with him in the vet's office as he purred bravely and attempted to climb onto our shoulders one final time, then gently laid his chin into the cup I formed with my hands as Lily and Jeff whispered love to him and buried their faces in his soft fur. It's not that those scenes (that play on a loop through my brain quite a bit) were awful for Ozzy; we know we made the right decision in light of the catastrophic stroke he'd clearly suffered. But I don't want them to eclipse all the other pictures and stories that make up the tableau of our fourteen years with him. And so I've decided that, as Ozzy's final post, I'll share those with you so that they aren't lost to me.

As we shared with friends that Ozzy was gone, a word came up over and over: "shoulder." Friends shared pictures and stories from the last decade that were from different states and houses, but one thing was in common: they remembered our boy as the cat who hung out on their shoulders. The process began with Ozzy arriving at our feet, sitting expectantly, and then beginning to bob his head up and down, lifting his body slightly off the floor each time. He'd carefully judge the distance to our shoulder--always the left one--and then, with a sudden bound, launch himself the necessary 5+ feet to land securely before wrapping himself around our necks, head tucked over the right side, waiting for head scratches that would have him burying his chin and ears in our cupped fingers. As he aged, sometimes a boost was needed--we'd catch the back end and give him an aid for the final inches, or we'd bend our knees so that he could spring off of them on the way. But once he was there--no matter how he got there--a deep purr would begin and we could continue about our tasks as we cooked dinner, changed a load of laundry, or chatted with friends.

When we were first introduced to Creature Comforts, we immediately recognized Ozzy in the panther who sprawls across a tree branch, lazily offering his perspective on a variety of topics. Though Jeff complained endlessly about Ozzy's favorite place to sprawl out--arguing that it resulted in extra-frequent vacuuming in a hard-to-reach location--Ozzy knew exactly what he was doing. Trip hazard or not, he was making himself irresistible to anyone passing by, whether headed upstairs to grab a book or down to the basement to check on Lily playing with friends. In the latter instance, he relished the time Jeff would spend attacking him from down below, and he'd happily spend hours chasing our fingers as we scratched them across the underside of the steps. In one memorable instance, he even surprised himself by making a full loop around, though it was a daredevil stunt he never again repeated.

As anyone who ever cat-sat for us can attest, Ozzy had a gift for turning sad eyes or a plaintive meow in the direction of anyone with the potential to use their opposable thumbs to acquire food. Somewhat indiscriminate in his tastes, favorite dishes included butter, roast chicken, and anything Lily had on her plate. Our favorite story, though, is of a young Ozzy who, one Saturday morning, scrutinized Jeff's consumption of a particularly spicy batch of huevos rancheros. Once Jeff discarded the empty plate on the coffee table, Ozzy crept closer to investigate. Discovering that the only edible item remaining was a streak of hot sauce, he wasn't dissuaded; rather, he dropped his head and took his first taste. As Jeff and I watched in amazement, he became more and more invested in his culinary exploration, only pausing to raise his head, tears leaking out of his eyes, before returning to his self-imposed torture.

Though it might appear that Ozzy's allegiances were fickle, we knew that nothing was further from the truth. When he first joined our world and attempted to infiltrate the sibling alliance between Rosie and Guillie, he connected to Jeff most immediately, often perching on his shoulder like a tiny parrot for hours on end. When Lily arrived, Ozzy's disappointment in our parenting was palpable: if we'd leave Lily in her carseat on the kitchen floor for even a moment or turn away from her on the changing table as we grabbed a new diaper, he'd move himself closer, carefully keeping a watchful eye over her. As Lily grew older, they became frequent partners in crime, whether observing the world or making their mark on it. And in spite of Lily's insistence on locking Ozzy in her room to play with or adorning him with an array of bows and ribbons, he still would select her lap to sit on while watching TV or her bed to curl up in while saying prayers. For her part, Lily immortalized him in nearly every story she told or writing assignment she penned for class; those tales are sure to help him live on.

Whenever we introduced someone to Ozzy, it was with a quick caveat: "but don't worry, we've trained him to be a dog, not a cat." While a bit tongue-in-cheek, there was validity in our statement: Ozzy greeted us at the door when we came home, followed us from room to room as we moved about the house, and even fetched his toy mouse. When the original favorite, Green Mousy, was somehow misplaced, hours were spent finding a replacement as Jeff and Lily rattled every rodent at PetSmart, and Grey Mousy was tucked into Ozzy's stocking this Christmas. A quick rattle would bring Ozzy running, and he'd happily fetch up and down the upstairs hallway, trotting back to us with the tail in his mouth, the mouse itself swinging back and forth under his chin. 

Ozzy went by dozens of names: Mister, Ozymandias, Bravest Boy, Master of the Man Cave, Dudester, Handsome Man, and the list goes on. Whatever we used to call him to us, though, he would come racing, ready to be loved and admired, content to know that he was safe with us. For this reason, coming home to find him incapacitated last Tuesday night was so much harder; we wondered how long he'd been sitting in confusion or pain, wondering why we weren't home for dinner (Lily had her first night of swim practice), worried how he'd make it down the stairs to us. A friend who I shared these guilt-laden thoughts with offered me a comfort, though, when she wrote, "Ozzy spent his life knowing that you aren't around most days, and, instead of feeling confusion on where you were, he felt comfort when you arrived. He was able to feel your love before he moved on." I'm holding those words closely to my heart these days.

Mister, you have left giant, paw-shaped holes in our hearts. I miss the "thwack" across my forehead when your tail swipes me in the middle of the night, the deep purr that vibrated through the pillows on our bed, the comfort you offered a teary Lily any time she needed fur to bury her face in, and the sound of Jeff's voice as he quietly talked with you as he moved about the kitchen with you on his shoulder. We are so phenomenally lucky to have had you at the center of our lives for as many years as we did, and we will hold tight to our joyful memories of you even as our empty laps and grieving hearts ache.

"The time has come, the Mommy said, when all good kittens must go to bed."