According to the prestigious Duxfeles Media Polling and Research firm, since my death in 1992, an additional 97,486 readers have turned to this space for their weekly dose of sesquipedalian loquaciousness and humor. That brings the total number of faithful readers to 284,248.
Disclaimer: Fayetteville-born Otus the Head Cat's award-winning column of 👉 humorous fabrication 👈 appears every Saturday.
I cherish each and every one of you.
Hardly a week goes by when I don't get a request for the moving memorial column Owner and Master Ben wrote on the occasion. The column seemed to come with its own literary crepuscular ray. Grown men wept.
On this, the 25th anniversary of my admittedly dramatic departure, I reprint the column and dedicate it to Mackey, Owner and Miss Celia's little buddy the past 10 years who died at the end of March at the age of 14, as well as their several co-workers who've recently had to say farewell to their own furry companions.
Yours in Kalaka,
-- Otus
May 9, 1992
How do you say goodbye to a daily companion of 17 years? With difficulty, I've found out.
Otus the Head Cat, part of our family since 1975, died on April 28. He was the first cat I'd ever owned.
Grainy old Super 8mm home movies show a spunky little black and white kitten chasing his tail and dashing up trees after imaginary prey. But in his declining years Otus mostly sat on the back of the couch or in my lap and contemplated the memories of old cats.
We thought we were going to lose him a couple of months ago when an arterial blockage paralyzed his hind legs. The old rascal seemed to be pulling through, however. He'd drag himself around the house complaining and fussing, grimly determined to be his old self. We thought he was going to make it.
In his last weeks he'd wait by the door, asking to go outside. He'd sit in the sun in the side yard with half-closed eyes watching for squirrels and daydreaming. He seemed content. But he was still unsteady on his feet and in the end that was his undoing.
There's a small pond in the side yard that used to hold goldfish. Perhaps Otus thought he spotted the fish. Or maybe he just slipped while trying to get comfortable on his favorite rock. We'll never know.
His half-Siamese heritage meant Otus was a talker -- and querulous. He certainly talked to me. Those who have never had cats won't understand, but the rest of you will. Our lengthy conversations were the inspirations for his column. I like to think I was only taking his dictation.
An incorrigible, irascible, sophistic observer of life was his public persona. Privately he was, simply, just a good cat. He was a calming reassurance through all the trials 17 years brought -- a certain steadfast comfort that served to smooth life's vicissitudes and remind me to never take things so seriously.
After so many years it was easy to think he'd always be there. After all, I was only 26 when he joined the family. Ahead lay a career at the paper, the end of one marriage and the beginning of another, the birth of a son, the death of a father and the countless other passages of life almost two decades bring.
Otus was there for all of it. It will be a long time before I quit looking for him on the couch or underfoot in the kitchen.
So how did we say goodbye? For me I guess it was that last morning when I stopped on my way out the door to give his ears a good scratch. For Celia, it was watching him sitting happily in the sun that last afternoon. As for Ben, our 10-year-old, he wanted to say goodbye in his own words:
"Otus was the first cat I ever knew. Otus was old, icky and gross, but I still loved him. I always thought he would be alive. Well, I was wrong, very wrong.
"The day Otus died, I had just come from school. My mom told me that Otus was missing. We searched for Otus. We could not find him. When I took a rest. I looked at the pond in my yard. The water was very black. I thought that Otus may have fallen in, but then I thought, 'Nah, he couldn't have.' Well, he did.
"Otus was the best cat I've ever had."
To Otus' extended family of readers who also came to know and love him over the years, there is this comfort. Otus once told me that he planned to keep sending me his column from wherever it was he was going after he was gone.
"You can't get rid of me that easily, Bucko," he said with a twinkle. "I'll always be a part of you."
And so, I guess he will.
-- Michael Storey
Disclaimer
Fayetteville-born Otus the Head Cat's award-winning column of
Z humorous fabrication X
appears every Saturday. Email:
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