Whisker Whisper
His whiskers were glorious. Elaborate white spikes sprouting from black brows and cheeks, they were impossibly magnificent, like a Dr. Seuss detail. I wanted to save one before burying him but it felt violent to pluck one from his beautiful body, arranged with three delicate flowers and a petite rubber pig, his favorite toy.
It’s not like we hadn’t before shared parts of ourselves, my cat Nobi and I. Arriving as an abandoned two-year old, my closet was his refuge. There, he would snack on my clothes: cozy sweaters his comfort food. Hundreds of dollars of my clothing he ruined, but I just held him close, nibbled on his velvet ears, and whispered: You’re safe. You are mine.
Eventually, he relaxed and (mostly) kicked his habit of chomping my clothes.
We slept together every night until his last, my hand on his back. My spouse wasn’t jealous; she slept on the other side, three spoons in a bed. Twelve years total we had, attached like this.
When he became too sick to live, I held him close, caressing his face moistened by my tears. He was scared at first, being in a vet’s office, but in my arms he relaxed and closed his eyes. After his body went limp, his claws were still embedded in my shirtsleeves. As if he too wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
The morning after burying him in my mother’s backyard, it appeared on my bed. One glorious white whisker, whispering back: You are mine too.
