To a Beloved Friend, Wishing You a Happy Journey

You appeared one day out of nowhere, as your type are wont to do. It was a cold, snowy, Illinois winter, so we let you sleep in the garage--temporarily. Human decency demanded that we give you a box and blanket to sleep in, but that was it. Oh, and of course a little bit of food. And a heat lamp. Of course.

We resisted naming you--you were "little black kitty" for weeks before we gave in. You arrived at about the same time as the Super Nintendo, so I started calling you "Yoshi." It seemed appropriate, since you devoured every morsel we put in front of you. Someone--or possibly everyone--objected. I offered "Obsidian," which was too much of a mouthful, so we settled on Onyx. Onyx the outside kitty.

It wasn't that we didn't like you--we just didn't want you in the house, where Shakti, the reigning queen, was sure to object to any intrusion into her domain. As her devoted servants (and the frequent victims of the scratchmarks of her ire), we would go to any lengths to avoid upsetting her--my father, her special companion, especially objected to disrupting her routine.

Then came the annual cold snap. In temperatures where exposed skin would freeze in under a minute, it would simply be inhumane to require that you stay outside! We moved you into the basement, shut the door, and hoped Her Majesty wouldn't notice. Just for tonight. Or until it gets warmer. But that's all.

Slowly, gradually--that's how it happened. First, you conquered the basement on cold nights; by summer, you had free run of the entire house. Shakti did not seem to mind, as long as you didn't interfere with her evening meal and showed appropriate deference her rank. You even became friends--or perhaps she simply tolerated your worship.

But the outdoors was still your domain. "He's been out cattin' around," Dad would say as you trotted back into the house after several days' absence, heading straight for the food bowl and loudly demanding immediate service. After an evening's prowling, you would wake me up in the middle of the night by clawing your way up the screen door outside my window and yowling pitifully until I came around to the door and let you in the house. Your frequent tussles with the raccoon that lived in our yard left you with an array of injuries--all on the rear end, oddly enough. Battle scars accumulated while fleeing for your life, Ruth and Tom hypothesized. "The mark of a cowardly warrior," we joked.

We moved to a new house when you were about four. Your confusion was apparent. Soon after the move, you disappeared for two weeks. One morning Mom, claiming you had communicated your location to her in a dream, drove back to the old house and called you. You came trotting out of the woods and hopped into the car as though you had been waiting for her all along.

A few months later, we did what we knew to be best for your eighteen-year-old, two-and-a-half legged, part-Siamese sister. You disappeared again after she died, this time for months. We were certain you were gone for good. But then one day, when we least expected it, you suddenly reappeared, mourning period over. You jumped up on the window sill and demanded to be let in, fed, and coddled as though you'd only been gone a day.

From that day on, you ruled the house. Your stealth allowed you to stalk a multitude of unfortunate birds, squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks without a sound, all of which you deposited proudly on the stoop, in the garage--and one memorable morning, at Mom's feet in the house. But when you wanted our attention, you let your tags jingle freely. A shake of your collar demanded an immediate response. We would jump up to let you out, let you in, or jiggle your food bowl and stand next to you respectfully while you ate.

You became an important fixture in our life. You blended in with Dad's favorite chair a little too well, though. From his study there would sometimes come a strangled yelp, followed by, "Shit, Onyx, I'm sorry!" You would streak away down the hallway looking rumpled and offended. Dad claimed he was working on establishing a psychic connection with you. I asked what you'd talked about. "Well, I don't know what he's saying yet, but he's got to be saying something, the way he looks at me," was his response. I'm certain someday he would have figured it out.

When the dog arrived, you tolerated her with the same equanimity that Shakti had shown towards you all those years ago. You allowed her to groom you, to sniff you, and to annoy you generally; she adored you without qualification.

And now you've gone trotting off again--this time, never to return. It seems an appropriate departure for you to simply disappear into the woods from whence you came once again--that you've simply gone out "cattin' around" for good. I hope that your adventures continue without intermission, wherever your journeys take you. You have been a most beloved companion for many years, and I will think of you often and with love as you continue on your way.

Farewell, my friend.

I don't know why you say good bye--I say hello!

I bet you thought I forgot about you, didn't you?

Far from it, friends, far from it.

Apparently law school really is a lot of work. This became apparent at some point in October, when the diligent among us (did I say us? I meant you. Most definitely not "us.") began throwing around words like "outline" and "study group" and "complete, abject failure." It was the latter that concerned me the most, so I decided to give this whole Protestant work ethic concept a whirl.

I didn't really pay attention in college, so I'm not really sure what that means, but it sounds like it means that for the first time in my entire life I actually stopped slacking off and threw myself into school for school's sake. The jury is still out on how it all went (very clever, how they don't give you your grades until it's too late to get your money back). Wonder of wonders, though--it felt good to work hard in school. Irritating, agonizing, at times soul-devouring--but good.

A few posts on the process will follow over the next couple of days.