Sad, Bizarre, Disturbing, and True.

After years of pleading, crying, and begging, my parents finally brought us home a "real" pet when I was in third grade- a black and white cat we named Felix. We'd owned other pets in the past- numerous goldfish, hamsters, turtles, and even a duck. But you can't love any of those animals like you can love a dog or a cat. After we brought Felix home, I slept with him on my bed at night, fed him tuna and treats, and always tried to give him love and attention. I didn't even mind that he never really returned the love, at least not to me or my sister. And he definitely had a distinct personality. If he brought us home a gift- a live mouse, bird,etc. and we didn't appreciate it like he thought we should, he would ignore us for days. If we gave him a bath, he'd immediately run outside and roll in the dirt. And even though he was neutered, he could beat up any cat that came his way.

While I was home for Christmas break my freshman year of college, Felix became very sick. Though there is no proof, we think that a cranky neighbor down the street who didn't want our cat walking through his backyard had set rat poison out for him to eat. In any case, we ended up rushing him to the only vet in town open late at night. The vet told us he would keep him overnight to monitor him, and call us in the morning. My mom, sister, and I drove back home crying.

The next morning, the vet called to say that our pet had died, and that we could come pick him up. Bill and I were newly dating, and I emailed him to let him know my cat had died. My mom and I arrived at the vet office soon after, and they handed him to us tied up in a garbage bag inside a brown box. Mom started to put him in the trunk, but I wanted to hold him on my lap on the drive home. Through town, we sat in silence, and I  kept wishing that he hadn't died so soon. I even imagined that the bag was rustling and  that he was moving inside. Wierd. Then, I imagined the tiniest meow. I looked at mom. Again I heard, "meow." Ok, really wierd. Then, as we were driving over the bridge toward home, the bag moved. "AHHH!!!!" I started screaming. "MOM, he's alive! He's alive! He's alive!" I ripped open the bag, and there our cat was staring back up at me, weakly meowing. I was so freaked out my entire body was shaking. Mom pulled the car over, and we both just looked at him. I started laughing and crying and gently picked him, cradling him.

When we got home, mom called the vet to tell them that, um, duh. Our cat wasn't dead, he was alive and breathing. The only explanation they could give was that he was over-oxygenated, giving the appearance he was dead, and that being tied in the bag brought the oxygen levels back down. I was so excited I called Bill to let him know our cat wasn't dead after all. Mom, my sister, and I all took turns holding him that day, and I kept picturing us featured on one of those evening entertainment shows, holding up our cat renamed Lazarus. Then, later that night, he quit breathing. For good this time. We took him back to the vet one last time, even though we knew it was over. Dad buried him in the backyard that night, and made him a little wooden cross. I once again called Bill to let him know our cat died again, and wondered if my new boyfriend thought I was a little unstable.

Felix was a good cat, and I still miss him.  He wasn't always the friendliest of pets, but he was ours, and I think it's pretty neat that even though he left us before his time, he gave us a pretty good story to tell in the process.