Percy, I still hear you

The house has grown quiet, but I still hear you, Percy. 

Your noises formed the soundtrack of this house. Your phantom noises still do. If a slow thunk-thunk came from the bedroom, I knew nap time was over. I had a hassock next to the bed so you jump up and out more easily. 

There was always the mighty voice that would not be denied. You let me know when you needed or wanted food or outside.

Where would we go this time? I followed, knowing you angle determined what you wanted. A hard left meant outside, an immediate right into the bathroom meant water, a soft right into the kitchen meant food or litter. If you stopped in the living room, I had to guess, and usually came up wrong. Sometimes you wanted to roll in catnip, sometimes I open the backdoor to see if you are waiting to come inside. If I didn’t check, you would paw at the door until I opened it. You could almost open it, and sometimes did when the duress of a garbage truck in the alley proved too much to take.

You had a whole world of noises. I still hear the purr, the deep rumble that came from you when you made biscuits and prepared to lie down. You often spent more time kneading the blanket than you would lying down, but I always enjoyed that you wanted to be there.

When you groomed, I would hear you. Sometimes you would get so into your efforts, the office chair would shake. 

The whistling snores and little groans you’d make in your sleep always stopped whatever else was going on in the house. They demanded a quiet audience. I keep waiting for you to climb out of the cat tower or chair behind me, to step down from the boxes and steps I placed next to it to ease to stress on your aging legs. The noises gave you away in your older years.

When younger, I remember sometimes being surprised to find you standing next to me. Somedays I find myself looking behind me, expecting to see you waiting. In summertime, you preferred to sleep outside for most of the night. I didn’t mind; you retained that much wild character, and I respected your nature. Few cats had such free rein, but having a yard lowered your stress. 

You had a funny habit of prowling before dawn, then returning to bed around 6 a.m., right when I needed to get ready for work. In Colorado, I would often make an exception and stay with you when you turned cuddly. Work could wait.

For years, I made a point of saying, “I love you, buddy” when you jumped into bed and I shut off the light. For a long time, you were the only company I had. 

When the quiet turns deafening, I still think you're napping away in one of your sleeping spots, the T-shirt left on the bed, the backpack that fell on the floor, or a spot where a sunbeam hits the couch. 

The nights have turned cold since you departed, and adding another blanket cannot replicate the heat you radiated. The heat works fine, but they feel even colder than what we endured through the power outage.

On your last night, I looked over. Your eyes seemed lost and glassy, and I thought you had stopped breathing. I almost hoped that you would pass in your comforting house so we wouldn’t have to turn your last hours into a time of fear and stress on top your illnesses. Life seldom delivers a nice finale. I confess my sleep has been deeper since you departed. 

Sometimes I hear claws on the bedroom door only to realize the boiler makes a similar sound when clicking on. Every time I hear it, I secretly hope for claws waking me up once again. 

Your chair, not mine.