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Edward Phillips

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It's Just You and Me, Kid
By Edward Phillips
Sunday, October 10, 2010

Rated "G" by the Author.

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This is a love story. It's about our beloved cat, Kyra.

      It’s Just You and Me, Kid
 
About 7 years ago I was out jogging late at night when we met.
She was hanging out under a street light, purring and waiting.
I stopped.  She didn’t.  She kept staring and giving me the eye.
There was something about those eyes.  They were big and green.
They spelled trouble, but trouble has always been my middle name.
You could say I’m a sucker for a pretty face and a nice set of weepers.
I could tell she had been at this game before.  Yeah, she was a pro.
I said “Beat it, kid.”  She didn’t move.  She kept giving me the eye.
I said “Look, kid, this sidewalk isn’t big enough for the two of us.”
She positioned herself right in the middle and dared me to pass.
“This is one tough broad,” I thought.  “I’d better be careful.”
“OK, lady, how much is this going to cost me?”  I muttered.
She moved seductively from side to side, checking me out. 
“Listen,” I said.  “You dames are all alike.  What’s your price?
I can take you home and let you stay for the night, but that’s it.  No funny stuff.”
She wasn’t impressed.  She sat down and opened those eyes really wide.
“Damn, she’s good.  She’ll take me to the cleaners before morning.”
I moved in closer.  She just stared and didn’t give any ground.
I was so close I could smell her breath.   But it was too late.
I was locked in her spell.  My head was spinning.  She had me.
Suddenly, she lept into my arms.  She started laying kisses all over me.
She was on me and purring and rubbing like there was no tomorrow.
Her passions were running wild.  So were mine. 
Finally, in desperation, I took her in my arms.  Our eyes met.
I blinked.  She didn’t.  I was a goner.
 
Well, it is now 7 years later and she still controls me.
When she needs a little loving, it’s got to be now.
When she dines it’s got to be the best.
Three times a day, she let’s me know it.
Three times a day she’ll rip my throat out if I let her down.
But mostly she sleeps.  She whimpers, she snuggles.
She arches her back and puts that beautiful rump high into the air.
When I’m in the mood, she runs and hides.
When she’s in the mood, it’s her way or the highway.
She’s sleeping now.  I know it’s just the calm before the storm.
In a few minutes, she’ll be back at her game...purring and staring.
And luring me in. But I’ve learned something about this dame. 
She doesn’t like hats.  Put a hat on her and ...
She’s just another cat. 

Another year has passed, and tragedy has struck. After struggling with cancer for several months, Kyra died yesterday. The sadness and heartaches we all feel today are very painful. This little wonder, who brought only love and joy into our lives, is gone.  Now she consumes both our conscious thoughts as well as our dreams.  I don’t mind.  The reward for accepting her comfort and her love, her playfulness and her captivating eyes, was to receive her complete trust in return.  What a joy! And what an honor!  She was everywhere:  Under the bed, in the closet, in her bed, in our bed.  Mostly, she was in our hearts.  She asked for nothing but food and a lot of cuddling. She held us all together with an invisible force that simply could not be broken. I wanted to be there when she took her final breath.  I didn’t understand why. It just had to be.  I tried to be as strong as she had been.  I could not.  I clung desperately to the belief that love cannot be taken away.  I relied on and found solace in that truth.  We carefully wrapped her frail body in soft towels, placed her in a small box, and drove home.  We buried her within a few feet of the exact spot where she had made a miraculous recovery just 6 weeks earlier. We covered her grave with red lava stones and ringed it with white stones. Then we placed a small flower arrangement on it.  I thanked God for the time He had allowed us to share our lives with Kyra. My weariness dragged on until evening.  Then my wife went out to mail a letter. When she returned, she had a curious look on her face.  In her hand was a small lava stone just like the stones we used to cover Kyra’s grave.  She asked me if I had placed it in the mail box.  I assured her I had not.  I had picked up the mail just two hours earlier, and the box was empty.  Was this a sign from Kyra that she approved of our small effort in preparing her gravesite?  Had she selected this most certain way to show her approval, her love, and her mischievous way of relieving our sorrow?  Of course it was.  Kyra always knew how to make the moment last. This time it was forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Reviewed by Edward Phillips 2/8/2012
Thanks, Ron. The "epilogue" to this story is this: Six weeks after Kyra died, we rescued two beautiful Tabbys just like her. They are brother and sister with more energy and stamina and mischief than we ever thought possible. They both spend a lot of time at Kyra's grave quietly charging up their mischief cells.
Reviewed by Ronald Hull 2/7/2012
From the beginning, you show yourself to be a better writer than I. For pet lovers, it's a captivating story, and it's heartbreaking when a pet dies from something as insidious as cancer.

I'm reminded of the time when my parents lived in the country and my younger twin brothers were about five or six. I was changing the tire on my 66 Toronado–the tire and wheel was very heavy and I was struggling with my paralyzed arms to push it in place–when, suddenly, out of nowhere, a black kitten jumped between my arms as if to show me that he existed and liked me.

I was surprised, but got the tire up on the studs and started putting the lug nuts on. I heard my brothers exclaiming behind me. “Oh, he's so cute! Look at him! Look at him! Ron, can we keep him! Can we keep him!”

Knowing my Mom's dislike of cats, and especially cats in the house, I didn't think she would approve. I told Tim and Tom, “I don't know. I don't know where he came from. You'd better ask Mom when she gets home from work. I left it at that.

Mom approved, and soon Blackie, and a long line of cats named Peanuts and Butterscotch, etc., ensued. Tim and Tom, now 53, still have cats. As it turned out, my brother-in-law found the cat at his farm up the road, and dropped it off at our place just to play a practical joke because he knew my mother hated cats. And that's… the rest of the story.

Ron


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