THUNDERPUSS: IN MEMORIAM
by Brett Rutherford
1
At the end
you are lilac —
sun filters
through holes
in the carrying case —
frail lilac
tinged on white
your fur
a rumpled coat
no longer sleek
on skeleton
legs too weak
for running now,
your leaps
misguided
end in confusion
yet you are lilac still
eyes blue
as Siamese skies.
You come out of the box
all kitten,
ready to explore,
eager to know,
yet terrified,
into the hands
of the doctor
2
Print shop cat
tracked through open ink cans
to autograph
the works of poets
with indelible paw prints.
Always underfoot
intractably neurotic
from the start
an all-night howler
in heat more than out
toms on the roof
at the cat-door window
toms taking turns
working in shifts
not even bothering
to fight
for your inexhaustible
yearning
steel spring queen
of a city of orgies.
3
Your leaps
were prodigious —
from floor to door-top
straight up curtains
bookshelves like ladders
nothing would daunt
your interest in ceilings,
high places,
hunter's eye view.
Even the ledge
between two office windows
too narrow for turning
did not defeat you —
you simply walked backwards,
regained the sill,
jumped to the floor
like a film in reverse.
4
From hellcat
you grew civilized,
calmed to the sound
of Handel and Mozart,
sat rapt at the foot
of my harpsichord,
tempered the leaps,
the claws-out landings.
A gentle reminder
from a water pistol
cured you of scratching
the furniture.
You grew to dignity
yet never shed the pride
of an aristocrat.
No one could pick you up
yet you would deign
to throne a lap
with your presence,
accept a suitable interval
of petting,
the obsequies
that mortals owe
to incarnate beauty.
5
Dreaming
you were more real
than waking
dreaming
you could escape
the dull perimeter
of print shop
of studio apartment
of four rooms in New Jersey
to pad a crystal jungle
stalk forest floors
cross deserts
converse with demons
bask in a sun that never sets
await the arrival
of your leopard king
whose sleek black fur
and amber eyes
are your eidolon
of Beauty.
I watched you dreaming:
the twitch of eye,
the paw extended,
the clench and unclench
of your jaws
tried to imagine the place
that lured you,
its feline geometry
one leap beyond
my human faculty.
I'd wake sometimes
to find you sitting there
upon my chest
eyes huge as moons
staring staring —
perhaps you too
brooded
on sleep and death,
waited for my
awakening
and asked yourself
Where does he go?
6
Only a grudging carnivore,
you were happy
with that bloodless stew,
those maddeningly crunchy
stars and tidbits,
those tins of neatly
chopped and compressed tuna.
Once, growling with
animal rage, you came back
with a mouse in your jaws;
once, the house was filled
with sparrow feathers;
now and then, you'd catch
and swallow something
with too many legs
run for the water bowl
to wash it down.
But near the end
you sat on sun-porch
surrounded by finches
and feeding sparrows
no glint of killing
in your blue eyes
calm as a storybook saint
preaching to wildlife
pensive as a Buddha
counting the sunfalls
toward Nirvana
7
We became one person,
shards of the same crystal,
mirrors
of one another's moods
you were always there
protesting my absence
before the key
could readmit me
you at the end
of every journey
running to rustle
of grocery bag
someone to shop for
catnip at Christmas
a rabbit-fur mouse
a length of twine
a boneless breast
of special chicken
8
A burglar came
through the downstairs window.
I frightened him off —
black leopard man
with amber eyes
leaped from the porch
over the fence
gone like a nightmare.
I wanted Death
to stalk you silently,
visit your sleep
like that intruder
surprise you gently,
take you from me
like a thief.
But when I find
that you can barely walk,
that you will not eat,
see you convulsed with seizure,
I must become
the agent of Death,
must temper him
with kindness.
I did not want
to choose the time
of your going.
Making the appointment
I gasped to spell
my name to the clinic,
shaking with grief
and more than grief.
It was not done in a daze.
The sun was brilliant.
Cats watched from every window
as I walked with blue box
toward the clinic.
It was the third of September.
Summer had died in the trees
the night before, blinked out
like Merope, the lost Pleiad.
Stars burned invisible
over the daytime sky.
I talked nonsense
to your moaning
jabbered about
going for a walk
calm down
we're
almost
there
9
Your absence
is palpable
like nerves
to an amputated limb
I still feel you
about to step
around the corner
of the sofa
hear you leap
from stovetop
to chair
to floor
the silken rustle
on carpet
claw clatter
on floorboards.
But these presentiments
are false now:
you are dust mote
rising to icy air,
a final leap
into unbeing,
you are ashes,
gray with a hint of lilac.
