Minky, the cat, died this morning, after having lived, by all accounts, a good life.
For an estimated decade, he had freely traversed our hilly, wooded Long Island neighborhood, belonging to no one, yet so robust and clean, so polite and confident that everyone assumed he belonged to someone. And then, just like that, he belonged to us, charming us with his sweet face and handsome markings, his cuddly form and ready affection—and his fur, so soft and silky, it spawned the silly name with which we saddled him: Minky, soft as mink.
In the 5 years he spent with us, Minky, the once solitary wanderer, surrendered to a communal life of on-demand feedings and incessant coddling, regular brushings and full-fledged indulgence. When he wanted solitude, he had that too, in a room of his own, on our sheltered patio; built by hand, a modernist abode, with flat roof and picture window, a comfortable, cushioned spot from which to reflect on his fortunes, and keep watch over his domain, his eyes and ears ever tuned to would-be interlopers.
The indignities of a litter box were not for Minky. We tried to train him, but he knew better than to acquiesce to our desires. Instead, he attended to his personal affairs outside, no matter the weather, alerting us to his intentions well in advance. He’d saunter over to a spot far from view, conduct his business discretely, and assiduously hide the evidence under leaves and twigs and soil—and then, return, a renewed spring in his step, to our open door.
Minky lived as he had wanted to, and died as many of us would wish to: at home, warm and safe on a chilly winter’s morning, a fire burning brightly, wrapped in loving arms.💔