Push-Ups: Fabio's Demise

The neighbor boy at the end of our street, Graham -- a good kid about the age of our oldest, now attending college and majoring in music -- rang our doorbell this past Saturday night, standing in the frigid air and deep early-winter darkness that still unnerves me since the onset of daylight saving time. I was on the phone in the kitchen and could only hear the warm greeting my husband gave, the one he reserves for individuals free of guile, at the door in the foyer. "Hey, there!" I could hear the smile in his voice, "We haven't seen you in a long time. What you been up to?" There was a general murmuring of garbled soft speech that I missed because I had my own conversation transpiring on the land line. By the time I hung up and moved into the living room to see who had pleasantly surprised my husband, there was not a person to be seen anywhere. The front door with its fresh greens Christmas wreath stood wide open; the cold night air was already etching new foggy patterns in the storm door glass.

Before I could situate myself back into the comfy corner of the couch where I'd been just minutes earlier, with Hank the Wonder Pup to my right, snuggled against my hip, and Jimmy the Wonder Hubby to my left in his easy chair within hand-holding distance, all of us mesmerized by the firm and charming Dog Whisperer on the Nat Geo channel, my husband came in through the front door. With nary a moment to wonder why he'd been outside, he abruptly informed me that our Fabio the Cat, prince of Jamison Place proper, was dead on Graham's driveway. I looked into his eyes, not quite comprehending this unkind interruption to our peaceful evening, and he simply, painfully, quietly confirmed his words with a nod. "I went to check. To be sure. Graham wanted to be sure. He's dead. Laying on his side. Looks like poisoning," he stood rooted in front of me, "What should we do about the body?" And that, folks, is when I began to cry.

And I cried as I ran up the stairs and into the storage room with its chilly unfinished space of piled boxes and holiday decorations. I grumbled to myself and to the ghost of Fabio, apologizing for his suffering and for possibly missing his symptoms and NOT taking him to the vet, all the while searching for a box that would fit his 12+ pounds of indoor-outdoor feline solidity. I cried because none seemed right. Because I suddenly could not recall exactly how big he was. Because I would next have to tell the children and my mother-in-law and the neighbors to our south who so adored his royal orangeness. I settled on a box. Ran to the linen closet and selected a twin-sized faded black fitted sheet with which to cover him. And ran downstairs, skidding to a stop in the formal dining room area with my finds to show Jimmy. Evidently, running is an instinctual physical reaction for me in the midst of sudden grief. But the ringing of the doorbell once again interrupted the silence of our home.

There was Graham, handsome in black slacks, a button-down shirt, hair slicked back. He had been a player in a church orchestral performance. His mother and stepfather were also standing there on the front porch. In their hands was a crate-like half-box with the outstretched stiff corpse of our once gloriously alive and living-every-moment kitty cat. Our Fabio. This, too, caused me to cry. Each one of them in turn expressed their sympathies at our loss, telling of how their old, deaf, little dog actually put up with our wandering tabby when no other animal would do anything other than irk the dottering canine. Those kinds of stories, the little ones that I knew were out there, adventures of a wandering cat, are comforting, providing a window into an unknown aspect of his on-the-prowl life.

His appropriate coffin: Fabio was, indeed, #1 Cat.

When I took the box into my arms, I was surprised at the dead weight of it. Fobs was even more solid in death. We took turns stroking his fur, realizing there would never again be a reciprocating purr or attitudinal nip. I noted the small bit of bubbly saliva at his open mouth. Graham had mentioned the presence of a freshly-killed bird carcass on our sidewalk near our yard. I wondered if his vomit earlier in the week really was a sign of poisoning that I overlooked because the thought of paying for another vet visit so soon on the heels of his previous visit seemed ludicrous. But NO. He often threw up a little here or there and then went along his merry way. I had Googled reputable online information sites to research possible anti-freeze poisoning and the like but our guy didn't meet the symptoms. And sometimes Fobs would nap more often than normal, especially on cold dreary days, and then perk right up out of the blue. Jimmy had let Fabio outside around 4 in the afternoon, before his dinner but after tussling with Hank in the kitchen, knowing he would return at the bewitching hour for his kitty kibble. He didn't show, even after Ashley returned home from her Saturday shift at Red Lobster, surely cloaked in a cat-desirable seafood scent that should have had him running across the street, chasing her car with eagerness and belly greed. He did things like that. Chase after Ashley's car when he saw her turn the corner and head down our street. She was an easy and affectionate mark when it came to his needs and wants, and that cat knew on which side his bread was buttered!

Jimmy helped me remove the ID tag from Fabio's collar. We set the sheet over the body, followed by a large black plastic bag around the entire, before putting it, putting him, out in the garage, on top of Hank's car kennel. And one by one, I called Zachary and Sarah . . . and my mother-in-law, who began to weep instantly, keen in her grief for the peachy tabby who had charmed her like no man ever had. Ashley had stepped out to rent a movie. The moment she returned with her boyfriend and movies in hand, I got to the point, wanting to spare us all any drawn-out discussion on the matter. At least for a little while. She took it hard. As expected. She lived and breathed that car. Meowing for him in the morning; calling for him at night; crooning over him if she came home for lunch break.

We spent the rest of the evening in a funk. The next show scheduled to run on the channel I'd been watching was "The Lady With 400 Cats." It was a unanimous group opt-out! Instead, the hours were whittled away with conjecture about Fabio's demise. My brother-in-law was quite hot under the collar, sure that some rabid cat-hater had poisoned our family pet. My husband and daughter didn't discount the theory. Though I knew it was a possibility, my gut feeling was that he had gotten into something either by way of a freshly poisoned mouse or bird, or perhaps random toxic waste mixed in with edible garbage in someone's garage or open trash can. Most folks do not properly dispose of hazardous waste material, including motor oil and house cleaning supplies. Even paint.

Ashley hesitated to sleep in the room she shared with Fabio, with all of its reminders of his presence. For the next few days, the living room couch doubled as her bed. When her collegiate little sister returned home for winter break, Ash cuddled with her sibling and Hank the Wonder Pup in queen-sized comfort upstairs, as far away from her bedroom as possible. We had ourselves a moment a couple of days later when I decided to vacuum her floor and put away several hair elastics scattered on her carpet. It turns out she wanted to leave Fabio's cat hair on her floor AND the hair ties were there because they were the evidence of her final play session with him. Oh!

One of my Earth Diva m'ladies gave me compassionate permission to bury Fabio on her family's country property. I was even allowed to choose the grave plot area with a nod toward Panda's future burial: thinking of our old dog and our feisty kitty sharing their final resting places made the preparations easier. Jimmy and our boy dug the hole, careful to dig deeply enough to thwart predators with sharp noses. Zachary fashioned a simple cross with epitaph. We gathered large stones to place atop the disturbed earth, scattering the fallen leaves of shag bark and hackberry trees across the plot's surface. Hank and his rat terrier-mix buddy, Tobi, played like the energetic young dogs that they are, even running in and out of the hole with nary a care as to its purpose. The view is breathtakingly gorgeous, peaceful, fit for contemplation of subjects far deeper than that of a beloved pet's unexpected death. Because as painful as it is, the loss of a pet cannot compete with the loss of precious human life. One of my reigning thoughts over the next few days was how easily the news on the other end of that initial doorbell ring could have concerned my son or daughters and a car accident at some nearby intersection.

Post-burial we had ourselves a celebration of sorts, maybe a wake after a fashion, to remember the unexpected blessing of Fabio in our lives. The stray who decided to stay, to come in from the November cold and beguile us with his handsome tomcat ways for the next four years. We sat around a table in a decibel-heavy Buffalo Wild Wings joint, eating wings and celery, maybe one or two of us imbibing with one or two Long Island iced teas. The Denver Broncos pulled another late-game victory out of the hat, firmly pushing a budding Tim Tebow higher into the national limelight. And it all seemed a fitting manner in which to mourn an unconventional orange kitty.

(*I was unable to finish this entry during the initial write-up. TWO Saturdays have now passed. I still see Fabio out of the corner of my eye, watching me from the kitchen table, eyeing Hank from the countertop, stalking the birds from the windowsill above the sink. We all hesitate to open the garage door, conditioned to worry that Fabio might escape after dark. And due to unrelenting pressure from our eldest child, the local animal shelter is short one 4 month-old black, gray and soft brown kitten-cat. But she is a story for another day, petite Miss Quill. She is not a replacement but rather a very pleasant and affectionate distraction.)