A few years after we were married, my wife gave me a lynx-point Siamese cat, much like the one above. I named him Hong Xiguan after a famous Chinese boxer and folk hero. That was probably a mistake because the cat seemed to take the name to heart and spent his 10 years hunting, fighting and killing anything that got into range of his claws. My wife simply called him “Cat.” One of our neighbors called him the “devil-beast from hell” because he terrorized her dogs.

Cat would only tolerate being handled in very small doses. If you tried to keep petting him after he lost interest, it was at your own peril. He bit. He clawed. You might as well stick your hand into the whirling blades of a Cuisinart. There were only two people he was deferential to: me, and my elderly father-in-law, who simply adored animals. Pap could pick Cat up, turn him upside down and let him dangle, and Cat never even seemed to be irritated.

My wife once chided me: “Of course you love that cat — he’s just like you. He’s all cuddles and charm when he’s in the mood, but there’s times he’ll take your head off if you look at him the wrong way.” I think Cat was offended by the comparison.

Cat’s reputation grew quickly in the neighborhood. His depredations were the stuff of legend. He could kill almost anything that was even remotely his own size — mice, rabbits, even a hawk that was foolish enough to perch on the boat at the side of our house. Dogs steered a wide course around him. He once ate a guest at a dinner party.

He never figured out how to kill snakes, and he would sometimes drag them writhing into the house, play with them, and then let them go when he grew bored. My wife was never amused when she discovered a live, pissed-off snake in the closet — or the living room, or the bathroom…

He once disappeared for several days, and came home with an ear falling off, dragging a front leg. The vet patched him up for the umpteenth time. I thought he had finally met his match.

“If it’s any consolation,” she said, “he was the winner.”

“How can you possibly tell?” I asked.

She smiled as she handed him over. “All of his wounds were on the front of him. When male cats fight, the loser is the one that turns and runs. The other cat will mark his back as he retreats. Your cat didn’t have any wounds on his back.”

I was incredulous. “So if I see a blind, three-legged cat in a wheelchair being pushed around the neighborhood…”

“Yup, he was the loser.”

One morning we noticed that there appeared to be a piece of hard white chewing gum stuck on top of his head. My wife, being wise in the ways of demon-incarnate creatures, managed to get a towel wrapped around him before examining the spot. She wiggled it and it popped loose. It was a .75-inch fang from another creature, that had snapped down on him so hard that the tooth broke off and lodged in the top of his head.

OK, so that’s the build-up. Here’s the creepy part. Well, two creepy parts. Take your pick…

My briefcase sat outside my bedroom, and I kept my bedroom door shut at night. Periodically, Cat would leave me a dead mouse next to my briefcase overnight so that I would see it when I got up in the morning. He would sit on a chair watching and waiting for me to get up, see the mouse, and acknowledge the gift.

I’ve gotten several explanations for this behavior. One behaviorist said it was a sign of deference; another insisted it was a female cat’s way of trying to take care of someone they didn’t think could fend for themselves. “But it’s a male cat,” I pointed out. She frowned. “Cats don’t do that,” she said, puzzling.

Personally, I think he just realized that a nice snack made it easier to get through the morning news meeting.

So here’s the weird thing: He always posed the mice, kind of the way a serial killer poses his victims to elicit a response from whoever finds them. He always set the dead rodents on their backs, with their little legs curled up and pointing into the air. Their eyes were always closed (he couldn’t possibly close their eyes, could he?), and, strangest of all, their tails were always missing. Why the Hell would he chop off their tails? Was it the best part and he was keeping it for himself? Was he afraid the tail would get stuck between my teeth in the middle of a meeting? It’s the kind of question that could keep you awake at night.

So one morning, I stumbled out of the bedroom, walked past my briefcase, and noticed Cat sitting on a chair. I made coffee, then walked back toward the chair, thinking that I needed to dispose of a mouse. What I saw, left me speechless: There was a whole family of dead mice by my briefcase. They were all posed on their backs. They were all missing their tails. And they were arranged in order, side-by-side, from longest to shortest: Daddy mouse, mama mouse, and then the little nippers.

Cat just sat there staring, as if to say, “Do you see what I do for you?” I got him a saucer of cream and went off in search of a shovel.

“Cats don’t do that,” the vet said.

And then there was this….

I had gotten home real late one night. The wife was in bed, along with our youngest, who was in grade school. We had a screaming fast Dell 425 computer in the living room and I sat down at it to log into the big UNIX box at the office and finish something up. As I sat there typing, I suddenly became aware that Cat was sitting on the table, staring at me. His behavior indicated that he wanted something, but I was tired, looking forward to a few hours sleep, and was trying to finish up the project.

“Not now,” I grumbled. He continued to stare for a few minutes, then stretched, and leaned out and softly placed his paw on my arm as I typed — and left it there. What the devil? Perhaps my biggest failing as a human being is that I sometimes become so wrapped up in what I’m doing that I don’t realize — or simply ignore — the needs of those I love. I kind of scolded him and went on typing. He pulled his paw back, got up, and took two steps closer to me, so that he was right up against the keyboard. And as I continued to type, he leaned over and struck one of the keys with one of his paws. Huh? “That’s not funny. Go away. I’m busy.”

I kept typing. He did it again. Now I was getting pissed. “It’s 1 a.m. in the blankety-blank morning and I need to finish this up and go to bed. Cut the shit.” And as I started to type again, he leaned over and struck several keys very rapidly, creating a whole string of typos. I growled, shoved my chair back, and he withdrew. But he gave me a look that positively dripped with disappointment.

He wasn’t around the next day, or the day after that. Three days later I found him in my closet as I was getting dressed. “How the hell did he get in there?” I mused. He was sleeping and I leaned down to scratch him behind his ears. No response. I shook him slightly, and he opened his eyes, but it was obvious that it took huge effort. I called in sick and took him to the vet.

The verdict: Kidney failure. “It’s been coming on a while,” the vet said. She drained the fluids, gave him some meds via IV. “This will get him back on his feet,” she said. “And things might start working normally, at least for a bit.” He did perk up. We spent that day together, and the next, but by the end of the following day he could barely stand.

The vet said we were out of options. “You know what he was like,” she said. “He’d probably prefer to go quick.” She gave me the shot, and I administered it at home, with him laying on a pillow, in his favorite sunbeam. I waited with him, reassuring him that there was nothing to be afraid of, and that we would all eventually make the same journey. As he was fading, he reached out and laid his paw on my hand, and stared at me for a moment before closing his eyes for the last time.

A 40-pound rock marks his final resting place out in the front yard, in one of the places he loved to nap. There lies the king of cats.

UPDATE:

Folks,

I’m overwhelmed by your responses. Thank you for all of the words of support, and for sharing your stories of living with, and parting from, your cats. We had a number of cats before and since Cat’s time, but he was unique in my life.

Yes, my wife was right — as usual: I’m rather a great deal like Cat in my personality, although I’ve mellowed with age and suspect Cat would have as well with a few more decades. I’ll never exactly be a touchy-feely guy, and I rarely talk about my feelings with anyone, but writing this, and reading your comments, was good therapy. It helped me remember a friend who shared my path for much too brief a time, and brought back details that I had lost.

Thank you