Coal, the oldest of our five pets, and without question the most reclusive, died June 15th of cancer. She was 12 years old.

Coal was an interesting cat, for a couple reasons.

She came from a litter of kittens born beneath the steps of the back entrance of the First Congregational Church over on West Evans Ave. Her mom was what I’d call a calico. And I’m pretty certain her dad was the big, black tom (whose head was as big as my fist) that probably sired most of the strays in the neighborhood. Enedina lobbied Monica and I  to adopt her.

Coal and her litter mates made a habit of dashing out of sight whenever anyone approached them. Living beneath a heavily trafficked door, those cats made lots of dashes for cover, especially on Sundays. And Coal never completely shed that feral tendency. If the doorbell rang here at the house, Coal would bolt for the refuge of our basement. The only way friends housesitting  for us could confirm her well-being was by keeping an eye on her food bowl and/or litter box. If Monica and I  were sitting out on the deck, we found it best to leave the door ajar on the rare occasion Coal ventured outside, lest she heard a neighbor’s dog barking  and felt compelled to flee.

 An audio clip of Coal purring

Our vet discovered a tumor on her spleen six weeks ago and thought Coal probably had one to two months before she would succumb to the cancer. Monica found Coal in the laundry room early Sunday morning; she appeared to have died during the night.

It seemed appropriate that Monica found her. Monica was Coal’s human, her person.Those two shared a bond, and not just because Monica was the one who fed her. Monica’s a creature of habit; she does things a certain way at prescribed times around the house. So did Coal, as was evident most evenings when she would wander into the family room a little after 9 o’clock, cueing Monica to get ready for bed. As a rule, Monica would be in bed by ten, ready to call it a day, with Coal curled up right next to her pillow.

I’m gonna miss seeing that.