by Ja.W. Smith

Created on: August 31, 2011   Last Updated: September 12, 2011

His Name Was Pood

I stood in front of one of his favorite places, the cushioned seat in the sunny bay window that protruded slightly from the back of the house, and it finally hit me. He was gone. I’d no longer get to feel his warmth against my skin or hear the relaxing sounds he made when he slept. I’d no longer experience the warmth in my heart, when I gave him affection and he returned it in kind. My eyes welled up with blurry tears as the heaviness of that knowledge applied a slump to my body, both inside and out. It also made me aware of an unfamiliar sensation of silence, emptiness, and stillness, throughout the house.

I stared out that window, a perfect view of the green yard, accented by reds, yellows, and purples in the beds of tulips, irises, and primroses. He loved that backyard. We’d spend hours out there. I picked weeds and expanded on the flower beds, while he soaked in the sun and enjoyed the outdoors. I longed for him to be there with me, just one more time. That longing began raising floodgates on dams of neglected memories and they suddenly washed over me.

The first memory was of one of his favorite things to do: hiding in the flora, secretly watching the birds and squirrels playing. They often never even saw him, because his long, fluffy, speckled fur didn’t give any pure silhouette or distinct colors to break his cover. In fact, that perfect camouflage helped inspire his name.

One day, when he still less than a year old, I sat and watched him from that bay window. He’d been hiding in the edge of the grass with the bulk of his body tucked into the flowers, instinctively motionless. His eyes narrowed on several small, grey, birds fluttering nearby. They must’ve been picking up seeds or worms and didn’t even realize the danger of a cat was present. It wasn’t hard to imagine why, though. He barely moved at all. Only his shifting eyes stole his stillness, as they shifted attention from one bird to the next, anticipating, hoping, waiting.

The little flock danced closer and closer over the next few minutes, until practically on top of him, and still didn’t realize they were within striking distance of death itself.

“I t’ought I taw a puddy tat!” The TV tweeted and it distracted me. Cartoons. Sylvester was sneaking up on the cage with the little yellow bird inside.

I turned back to the yard. The cat’s head lowered and he slowly hunched his rear legs, as if pressing

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