In loving memory of Stanford
(Above photo)
To the day that changed everything for our diametric Pet Guy …
Pet Guy rushed home those last few blocks, flinging open the doors of his home, which he shared with Stanford, his partner and absolute confidant. He had only left for a carton of milk, but he 'knew' something had happened, and so, the mad, ‘out-of breathe-dash’ home.
And then the unanswered, “Hellos,” escalating the anxiety manifold, and the tragic view! Stanford had one paw folded underneath his head, on his desk ---dead! Stanford’s book, “Washing Cars,” had fallen out of his other paw on the floor, finished! His other paw was curled and rigid, reaching, a hollow, last gasp for a falling book, but so monumental: A beginning and an end simultaneously?
Stanford looked so beautiful, even without life, fading to black so rapidly, from summer to death of winter. Now his perfectly symmetrical face was completely white, except for that different colored little whisker. He had a peaceful smile on his face with his thin black lips ever so slightly parted. He had finally finished his book! After countless edits it was eventually how he wanted it. To actually ‘live a life’ was a prerequisite to write it!
At the sight of the tragic view Pet Guy crumbled. He slept. He draped his arm over Stanford, if only from habit. Now he was outside. The mind and body of our Pet Guy seemingly had been split apart. Stanford at one point held the glue. As the sun broke the night each morning, he saw himself sleep ---when asleep. He was a stranger, even to himself. Everything was different. Everything moved differently, almost shutting-off. The days; no different from one to the other.
But …one day, finally, the sun was able to penetrate the gloom. It seemed to have help, as it crept under the door, and through little nooks. He awoke, now sitting up in his bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he left his home. But the light creeping into his apartment held ...such enchantment! He stood up, and in whatever clothes he could find, now stood outside. He reached his arms up, trying to refresh himself ---but was ...suddenly …amazed.
The wall of their apartment building held the enchantment, as it …‘held color’. The light that crept under his door and through those nooks, danced over the blending colors. On the west facing side of their apartment complex, was now a painting, a mural, huge ---monumental art. He walked closer to examine it, “Could it be true?” He asks.
In the bottom right corner he sees Stanford’s signature. Below that, in a cat vernacular, a poem was written. He slowly rubs his fingers over every brush stroke, but suddenly, startled, he jumps and turns. Directly in front of his room, a group of people have formed, seven of them. He runs to the group to hide them from his home, from Stanford sleeping dead on his bed. The group of people and Pet Guy now face each other.
“Everything has been taken care of,” a member of the group says while holding Stanford. All the people are holding cats. The cat's head jerk, as their eyes snap-shot his every movement. “Stanford is dead! What are you doing with Stanford?” He screams.
“Stanford is a cat.” Another member of the group speaks, almost in a whisper. This member of the group is holding two cats. “Do you understand what that means?”
“Okay …yes …I believe so.”
“Do you like the mural on your building? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Stanford gave us all his art. But he gave explicit instructions that you should have the book, “Washing Cars”. You do know that he told you about everything. You must understand. Stanford only spoke ---absolute truth, Pet Guy. He was nothing but genuine. We thank you for being his friend.” One of the members stood up and handed Pet Guy, “Washing Cars,” Stanford’s book.
She spoke, “We have a love that will eventually pass below the superficial. It takes time. I’m sorry for your loss. The procession is tomorrow. Main Street will be closed all day.” Pet Guy turns away, and walks inside his room, saying his good-byes to the Group of Seven, and was soon asleep.
The next morning, the winds came from a different direction. It brought in, which until then were hidden, colorful sounds from cats. They came in through and then around the door, through the window, soon all around they were heard, echoing softly in his room. He awoke refreshed.
He walked the few blocks to Main St., but was suddenly …in awe?! On one of the biggest buildings in the city, a mural of the two of them hugging, had been freshly painted. All down Main St. was Stanford’s art. Groups of people were just standing, staring, all down Main St., seemingly unable to move, so inspired by Stanford’s art.
But once he was seen the procession would begin. Quickly six cats surrounded Pet Guy. Three were on his left side and three were on his right. Then pall-bearers came holding Stanford and stopped. Their gesture was understood and Pet Guy picked up Stanford, wrapped in a blanket. The procession was officially underway. He participated in the procession until the night.
At the end of Main St. he gave Stanford to a member of, The Group of Seven: The Cat People. He now understood.
That night, after Stanford’s funeral, Pet Guy sat with his memory of Stanford, terribly sad, but not destroyed, reading his book, trying to remember every word he chose. But ...
Good-bye, and don’t forget to feed your cat,
The End
