Earl-the-Cat wasn’t his real name. It was a fictional moniker I gave him, to entertain readers of this Sunday Post for 13 years. His real name was Sweet Earl, and he died, mercifully, nine weeks ago.
He was the orange tabby we adopted from the humane society 13 years ago. The little critter was no longer than a stick of butter and weighed about as much. Daughter Scarlette picked him out, sympathetically noting that he stood out: looking mopey and lonely among all his frolicking cage-mates. When we first got him home, he hid from everyone... and everything out of sheer terror. On the second day of his residency, I pulled him from under the couch, affectionately held him almost an hour, and the two of us bonded for life. Affection causes one to be born again, whether man or beast. Plus, maybe he sensed that he and I were the only guys in a household full of females.
As Earl grew older, he never outgrew that mopey look. Instead, he perfected it to his advantage. Despite being indulged and fawned over by all our friends and family, he still had a sad sack face of deprivation and dejection. What a con artist.
Earl was one of two kittens we brought home that day. The other was a calico named Gucci. The workers at the humane society had named them, appropriately as it turned out. Gucci was a little snob and Earl a little dork. Gucci walked around flicking her tail, the side of her she always preferred to show the world. Earl, on the other hand, was always hopping up, nuzzling our faces, or getting underfoot. Gucci refused to use any litter box that had Earl’s scent. She chose pristine places on carpet instead. We got another litter box, just for Gucci. But Earl never met a litter box he didn’t love, so he jumped in and used that one too. Gucci eventually got adopted by some friends and Sweet Earl became an only-cat. That was fine with him.
Earl grew rapidly, eventually developing quite a hang-belly. When I was growing up, all the cats that featured such a low load were pregnant. Maybe we had an Earlene on our hands. But no: turns out it’s a guy thing too, Earl’s feline version of a beer belly. Earl grew to 16 pounds and stayed up there almost to his last month: that’s about 350 pounds when converted to a human scale.
In those early years we hosted hundreds of Chinese scholars in our Urbana home. Nearly all of them fell in love with Earl. He was photographed myriad times and will live eternally in cyberspace. We’d hold large picnics in our backyard, and Earl would occasionally sneak out the sliding door underneath someone’s feet and start mingling with the crowd. Then someone would notice that Earl had moseyed off into the neighborhood, and two dozen Chinese scholars would be roaming the streets calling out in Chinese accents, “Earl…Earl.” Someone would eventually rescue him and carry him home. Most every picnic featured a round of “find Earl.”
Being an ordinary “Earl,” he never cared about fancy cat food. His preference was a dish of dry pellets. His water sources included pilfered sips from my unattended water glasses, or puddled rainwater, or the toilet. We kept his water dish full, but the water in it was more likely to disappear by evaporation than consumption.
Yet, for all his finicky eating and drinking, Earl never missed a human meal. Whether it was just Jie and me or a table-full of company, Earl was usually the first to hop up on a chair when it was time to eat. He preferred to sit with someone rather than have his own chair, if possible. He seldom liked what we were eating, but at least wanted a sample. His routine was unvarying: positioning himself on your side, (so as to get at your fork,) he would get a paw on your arm before the food reached your mouth. His favorite position was to wedge himself under your armpit while you ate. When we offered the mealtime prayer, someone had to keep an eye open to be sure he didn’t nibble on everything. Human conversation bored him, however, and after we'd hand him a sample or two off our plates, he’d hop down and go take a nap in the other room.
All three of our grandchildren loved Earl. Upon arriving at our house, their first words were never “Hi Grandpa and Grandma.” They were always, “Where’s Earl?”
After he died, there were a couple things we didn’t miss. Both Jie and I are allergic to cats. Earl was constantly shedding, and I’d like to know how many bales of orange hair we vacuumed up in 13 years. He tracked dirt all over the house, whether from the outside or from the litter box. It’s cleaner since he left us.
But we still expect him to greet us at the door when we get home. We mourn his absence at our dinner table. We miss the affection he showed in the evening when he’d jump up on the couch to snuggle while we watched TV. There is no one standing sentry at the bedroom door when we first walk out in the morning. There is no longer any quirky “milk ring” entertainment, watching him chase the plastic milk ring (off the milk jug) when we threw it across the floor. He was the only one in the house who would not argue with your opinions. Of course, the dopey look on his face wasn’t that affirming, but at least he never talked back.
I’ve had cats before, but never one who looked you in the eye like Earl did. He came when you called his name. It was the only word he knew. He loved an audience and knew how to play it. He never met a stranger.
There are dozens of Earl-the-Cat stories and vignettes in my Sunday Posts over 13 years. And the photo files on our phones are filled with his pictures. The deepest grief of his passing is now over. But still… in my heart, his life is powerful and poignant… and I relish every moment I can steal to mourn Sweet Earl, a sadness not without plentiful joy and gratitude..
CLICK HERE for the slide show of photos of Sweet Earl on my website.
