Making Moves

He died in my lap because he lived in my shadow.

Parked cars laced an uphill stroll.  Pressed for time but discouraged by classes, maybe I was looking for a delay.  Maybe I was late because I didn't want to go at all, but his appearance was the excuse.  Between two cars he appeared, crossed my path but pretended not to see.

My move.

I stopped and called.

His move.

A flick of the tail and squint into the sun behind me created a bond.  I called again, this time tender and playful.  He doubled down with an arched back and shoulder on my shin.  With a stroke of the neck and rub of his spine, my timely arrival to class was doomed.  

Sensing the shift, he rolled onto his back and exposed his belly as if to say, 'You know what to do'.  Such intimacy was a relief from graduate school stresses, but how many feline exchanges ended as quickly as they began?  Content with his generosity, I proceeded without awareness of being chosen.

He walked in my shadow for three car lengths, howling as we stepped.

My inquiries with neighbors revealed his alley cat status.  "Help yourself," they said.

Without protest, he let me scoop him up and walk back to the vehicle.  Quietly, we rode to the veterinarian to spend money I was unable to spare.  Before nightfall he was munching kibble on a window sill in Baltimore.

When I finished in Baltimore, we lived above a Detroit garage.  When I married, into the union he came.  Perched and purring, he was a sentinel while I was in seminary.  One child, then another meant more hands for petting, but he stayed in my shadow.

Through the years, he learned the sounds of the cars and bicycles I used.  His saunter to the door let my family know I was approaching.  Coming home included a thump from his tail and nuzzle of the nose.  While I suspended him by the nape of his neck, he would close his eyes and hang limply.  Three feet off the ground, he would purr as I mumbled tender incoherencies.  

As he slowed, veterinarians offered expensive miracles.  The doctor said, "Just to be clear, you're taking Jabez home for hospice care?"  When I remembered how we began, strength came in the end.  

"I'm taking him home."

Our usual haunts suddenly overwhelmed him.  He could no longer climb stairs.  When he went downstairs and stayed, his request rang in my ears.

My move.

I followed him into the basement to sleep, eat and work.  Because his energy was low, he only lifted his chin and squinted in approval.  We talked and sat quietly but when he was ready, he made a move.

Gathering his skeletal frame, he leapt from the floor and into my lap.  A day, a night and a day we sat.

 He died in my lap because he lived in my shadow.