by Bea Dahlen
Pyewacket was our cat. He lived to be eighteen years old. He was a beautiful black, male, Burmese, who was a loving and well loved companion.
After Pye got sick, but before he had slowed down, there were two cats who lived on the side street behind our house. One was a little calico female named Petey, and the other was a young black and white male named Misery. There was a depression space under our stockade fence in the back, and these two would come over every morning for Pye. They would sit on our door mat, and wait for him. They often brought presents for him, dead birds, mice or squirrels. I used to joke that he was the Godfather, and they were bringing tributes.
Not long after they started this behavior, Pye started having small strokes. He would have trouble walking, and be disoriented for a day or two, and then slowly recover. One night he didn't come home. We called, and looked around the neighborhood, but couldn't find him. We thought that we might never see him again, that he'd had a major stroke, and died somewhere. I went out and looked again in the morning, but couldn't find him.
That afternoon, I was hanging clothes from the second floor widow's walk, when I spotted Petey come from the hole under the fence. She walked to the pool apron, looked behind her, and walked back. A minute later, Misery did the same thing. I thought this was very strange, so I continued to watch. Then I saw three cats walking side by side come from the fence toward the house. Pye was listing and limping, and the other two were supporting and guiding him home. I ran down and got him, and told Petey and Misery what good cats they were. I gave them a Pounce or two when we got back from the vets.
Pye lasted until that summer when the tumor was eating the leg away. When we brought him back from the vet's that last time, we buried him under the trees in the back yard. When he was so old and sick, we bought a miniature marble mausoleum at an auction. It was a sample. We buried him under it. We affixed a brass plaque on it which read OUR SWEET PYEWACKET, and stood a statue of Saint Francis on the top. The grave was near the hole under the fence.
The next day I bought some impatiens to plant around his grave. When I went behind the pool to the grave, there on the top of the mausoleum, right next to Saint Francis, was a dead bird. I'm not sure how it got there, but I'd like to believe that Petey and Misery brought him one last tribute. Whenever I look out the window, or sit by the pool and see his grave, I think of that special friendship that even animals can share. It always reminds me to be grateful for the wonderful friends that have given me so many tributes with their love.