By the street light I spotted a motionless animal on the double yellow lines of West Lemon Street: a domestic cat that I learned later was female. A crown of dark liquid haloed her downy head.
I had been enjoying a fire at my friend Josh’s house with a small circle of cyclists. It was midnight.
I walked across College Avenue so that I could enter our alley to use the back door quietly. (Our dog Rue doubles as a shocking front doorbell).
A few days before, Becky and I had watched with rapt attention the TV coverage of Queen Elizabeth’s funeral processions. Her jeweled crown and scepter rode atop the coffin as her entourage crept along from Buckingham Palace to Westminster Hall.
Her death triggered unprecedented decorum in the U.K., and it touched me, as well, in surprising ways. Perhaps it also prepared me for my encounter with this little queen of the neighborhood.
I glanced left and right. I didn’t want to become the next casualty of recklessness. I strode out to her, soberly, and tapped her belly with my sneaker. Lifeless, as I expected. I pulled her up by her tail, pillow-y soft and tough as cable, and lay her pliable body on a bed of mulch next to my neighbor Margot’s sidewalk.
I recognized the kitty as the same one who had bolted out of our yard a few nights before when I opened the back door on trash night. Her coat, creamy white and dappled with tan splotches, gave the impression she was cuddly. Obviously, she was playful and adventuresome. Though I’m allergic to felines, I thought I’d have a cat like that if I could.
Despite being hit by a car, her collar lay beside her, intact, as sometimes precious mementos find their way to earth after a tornado. It was made of thin, faux leather and displayed the owner’s phone number and “Kitty.” As first responder, I couldn’t hold a long vigil, but I paused in silent blessing before texting the owner.
A guy with tattoos walked up to me as Kitty lay at my feet, my phone in my hand. He had just gotten off work. He too was sobered and curious about the cat. He began to walk away, then darted back. “Wait, I randomly have an ID chip scanner in my car. I found a stray dog recently…long story.” His scanner found nothing. I thanked him and went inside to compose a text to the number on her collar then went to bed, figuring the owners were asleep. I prayed no person or critter would disturb Kitty.
At 6:00 AM I checked on her. I was relieved to see she lay undisturbed in the mulch. Her owner and I texted about location details, and I finally ventured a call once I learned that they had collected the body.
A young woman named Jasmine answered. She, her husband, and their daughter had moved up from North Carolina recently with their rescued Kitty. This cat indeed loved to explore and was sweet and playful at home. She told me that when she went to remove the body, she sat down on the sidewalk and wept. A woman she didn’t know offered her a blanket to wrap up the corpse.
In death and grief a bit of decorum emerged for Kitty and Jasmine.
Like my encounter with Kitty, the English ceremonies triggered sadness and hopefulness in me. I didn’t see it coming. The dysfunction of the Royal Family and of monarchy itself notwithstanding, I felt some vindication, not for myself, but for the Queen, whose noble life ennobled us all. In her procession I saw more acutely why we all need something, someone for God’s sake, to take our human royalty seriously.
News from Town
Welcome seven new readers! Jeremy, Eli, Ron, Miles, “pt,” Charlie, and “vc.”
And one new paid subscriber: Patty. Thanks, folks!
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My goals for Sept. 30, 2022:
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To find an association between Queen Elizabeth and that furry dead kitty is what makes your writing so unique. Well done!