Farewell, Indy

Tonight, we drank, as a family, a toast to Indy, our cat.

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Back when I first got onto the Internet, I ended up participating in the Belief-L Listserv, the “Personal Ideologies Discussion List.”  In 1996, for a second year running, we had a meet-up — that year, in Indiana, on a farm belonging to [unrecollected relative] of Bruce’s.

We under-estimated the time it would take to get from Denver to the just-short-of-Indianapolis area, and so arrived a day later than everyone else.  As we drove up to the farm, everyone came over to greet us … carrying a cat.

So, I’d noted on the List that we were looking for a companion kitty for Mist.

And the night before (the night we’d spent in a hotel on the outskirts of, as I recall, St Louis), the folks who had made it on time had been out at the farm, around a camp fire, drinking beer, and eating pizza … and a little black cat had showed up , to share in the bounty.

Thus, he was dubbed “Indiana Pizza & Beer” — “Indy” for short (“We named the cat Indiana”).

We didn’t have to take him — a small cat, 6 months to a year old, runt of the litter.  We presumed he’d been “dropped off” in the country by someone who didn’t want him.

But we didn’t  have to take him.  He could have been a barn cat.

But he was so sociable … we really never had any choice.

A hop (on the way out of town) at a Wal-Mart to pick up a cat carrier and litter box, and we were headed home.

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Indy was always the young kitty, the small kitty, the friendly kitty.  Mist was elderly, crotchety, anti-social.

Indy was  always a hunter.  Well, Mist was, too, but we figured out Indy did the majority of it.

He was one of the cats Katherine grew up with.

And Indy was always the young kitty, until Mist passed away. And then, suddenly, he was the senior cat in the house.

A few years back, he had some sort of back injury (we assumed a scrape with a garage door or, perhaps, a car).  We had worried doubts, but he pulled through.

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Indy was the elder cat as others came in (and went).

And if he became a bit more idiosyncratic, a bit more hard of hearing … well, damn, he was he was 16 years old.  He deserved it.

And he started being vocal and insistent upon attention. Particularly at night.  Get him to hop up on the bed, pet him a bit, let him nestle down next to you in bed, and he was okay. For a while at least.  Of course, he might hop up after a while, wander off, then wander in again in another 20 minutes, and start yowling.

Indy also continued to prove his physical recovery, and macho abilities. To wit, being The Mighty Hunter.  Over the last year, we got a steady stream of mice, voles, birds, and young rabbits. Which would be problematic at best, if it happened in daylight hours. In the middle of the night.  Yowling. With a bunny. Who was still alive … or, alternately, was stashed behind stuff in the closet … made for unrestful evenings.

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One evening, we’d had (as per summer time) the doors all open fairly late, and Indy was out in the night nowhere to be seen.  It being late, I decided it was okay to go ahead and just close up.  I didn’t want to leave things open, given that Indy had brought us several hunting gifts over the previous week.  So I closed down the human and kitty doors.

And we didn’t see Indy again.

And, yes, I feel guilty.

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The vets, and the shelters, all encourage you to have indoor cats.  The out-of-doors is dangerous.  And, statistically, they’re correct.  Even assuming some predator doesn’t get you, encounters with other critters and other cats and, of course, motor vehicles, all serve to shorten the lifespan.

But cats want to be out.  And call it appreciation for that fact, or laziness on our part, but keeping them locked up inside is just not in the cards.

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I did all the searchy stuff.  I reported Indy missing to the city animal control.  I checked out the websites (with photo galleries) of the local shelters.  I put a LOST CAT ad on Craigslist, and watched the FOUND CAT notices.

Nada.

It was … hard to talk about. All of us in the family were aware of it, but we just didn’t talk about it. For me,  it was that guilt, and the sense that, maybe, somehow, I should have done more, been more restrictive/protective.  Hunted around the neighborhood. Looked more.  Cared more.

But … clearly … over time …  it was more and more obvious that Indy was not coming back. And, given that he was chipped, it was clear that he’d not been found and turned in somewhere, or even hit by a car and recovered via animal control.

Instead, I have to assume, the Hunter became the Hunted. We’ve had foxes, and coyotes, in the neighborhood.  We’ve lost other cats to nature, red of tooth and claw. That irony can’t be escaped, and the fittingness, even amidst the sorrow, remains.

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Indy was always nervous about food, traumatized, perhaps, by his sojourn in the farmland wild.  Upon being let into the house, he’d bee-line to the food dish, just to make sure it was there.

He was always more  sociable than Mist, but in the last few ears, as the elder cat of the house, had become a snuggly cat … usually of the “stand next to you then suddenly topple over against you” variety.

He was a good kitty.

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We rank a toast — me with champagne, Margie with some wine, Kay with some Sprite — to Indy.

He will be remembered.