Mr. Leonard
Photo by Ann Cook
What’s on my mind?
Mr. Leonard made it too easy. While most of the pets I’ve loved suffered from illness, he was different.
Fifteen years ago, Liz found an orange kitten with a crooked tail hiding in a bush at Cook Peak. We already had too many critters, including those in the barnyard, and I didn’t want another. But he wouldn’t leave. When no one claimed him, he joined our family and became Mr. Leonard.
If cats have nine lives, Mr. Leonard spent three with me. His first was to sickness, probably from eating something he shouldn’t have, but I nursed him back to health. The second was a nasty cat fight that tore a gaping hole in his throat. The vet doubted he’d survive, but somehow he pulled through because I nursed him. Then came the infamous Feline Rumble of 2016, when a wound below his ear festered and exploded, requiring more stitches. After that, Mr. Leonard officially became an indoor cat. Besides, he was becoming too expensive.
Mr. Leonard was my cat. I was his human. Every morning at 6:00 am, we made coffee together in the kitchen. He’d sit on the counter, waiting for his bowl of water and morning hug. Yes, I hugged my cat every morning. Then he’d follow me upstairs and curl up in his fuzzy donut bed in front of my bedroom window. That was his spot. He had a great view of the barnyard, cement pond, and squirrels playing in the oak tree. But at night, when everyone else was asleep, he wasn’t. Mr. Leonard woke me up every night around 4:00 am, purring and kneading my hair. I’d reach up to pet him, then he’d curl up next to me and go to sleep. That’s how I knew something was wrong.
The last time I saw Mr. Leonard was early Saturday evening, resting in his fuzzy donut. By bedtime, the bed was empty. I assumed he was already in the guest room downstairs, watching the nightlife by the sliding door. But when I woke at 4:00 am and he wasn’t kneading my hair, I knew something was wrong.
Mr. Leonard was in the guest room, sprawled in front of the slider, as if asleep. He was gone. I petted him one last time, tracing down to his crooked orange tail, and whispered that I loved him and would miss him terribly. Then I took off my bathrobe and carefully wrapped his body.
Mr. Leonard made his passing easy for me. He didn’t suffer from illness or need euthanasia; I’m sure he died peacefully of old age, probably just lay down and slipped away. As sad as it is, I’m deeply grateful I never had to watch him suffer.
The ground beneath the oak tree was soft from the recent snow, making it easy to dig a deep hole. It was the perfect resting place with a clear view of my bedroom window. I gave Mr. Leonard one last hug and laid him to rest with tears in my eyes.
The whirly-twirly I ordered from Amazon to mark Mr. Leonard’s grave arrives on Wednesday. I bought it so every morning, when I drink my coffee in bed, I can look out my bedroom window, just like Mr. Leonard used to, watch it spin, and say, "Good morning, Mr. Leonard."
