Darius

Did you ever really want to write about something but feel like you ought to ask permission first?

That's how I feel about writing about Darius.

Darius was a large (but not fat), furry (but extraordinarily well-groomed), grey (with a tinge of blue) cat. My brother got him--I'm not sure where--when he was just a wee kitten. For the last five? six? years, Darius and my brother were constant companions.

Darius was so well socialized he was almost un-catlike. He enjoyed being brushed, and his coat had an almost otherworldly glossiness as a result. He played, though in an orderly fashion, with a variety of strings and feathers and springy things. He followed my brother around the house and meowed chattily, though not too much. At least with visitors, he specialized in sitting near rather than on. He served as a timely, yet not overly annoying alarm clock. He raced up and down the hall at awe-inspiring speeds. He simultaneously made friends with and utterly dominated the other animals of the house, including Samurai the rabbit and (most recently) Lola the pit bull. He hung out, in good times and rough times, with my brother, weathering the storms of romances run aground and grad school freakouts and career uncertainty and that huge black cloud that lingers over every Schardt kid's head like a hungry vulture just waiting for the opportunity to descend and ruffle its wings and start to feed.

He was primarily an indoor cat, but he enjoyed his excursions outdoors immensely. He came when called without fail, and it was this last trait that proved his undoing.

Two days ago, my brother got home from work and called Darius inside. Darius came bounding across the street, thrilled as ever to see his favorite two-legged people-person, and was hit by a car and killed.

And this is the part about which I really need to ask permission before writing--before talking about how a late-night call from my mom, when she has that certain glassy tone in her voice, immediately makes my heart clench and the thought pop unbidden into my head: what's happened to my brother? Is he OK? And when I heard what had happened to Darius, I really didn't know if he would be OK. I still don't. He hasn't returned my calls yet, and I'm not holding my breath.

Shit, Darius, you stupid gorgeous cat. What the hell are you doing messing with somebody who absolutely utterly totally doesn't need to be fucking messed with right now?

Edited to add:

For Darius, and for Lori too. Happy blogiversary, baby!

Comments

[Helena]

Oh no! That's so sad. :(

[Summer]

Poor Darius. Poor Your Brother. :(

[Amy Sorensen]

It is amazing to me how much those furry four-legged beings become a part of who we are. I'm so sorry about poor Darius...hoping your brother is doing OK today.

[Lori V.]

Molly, you are one of the most amazing buds (and, I'm sure, sisters) anyone could ever imagine!

RIP, Darius. I hope your brother is handling this okay; I'm definitely not looking forward to the day when I have to face the emptiness of losing one of my purrballs.

[Magpie Ima]

I am so sorry. I always thought that once I had kids the cats would take a smaller role but it still feels awful to lose a cat, especially one who's been around forever.

[Mimi]

Oh how sad. I'm so sorry.

[Angie S]

Hey Molly- I miss you. Hope to see you in June. You have been tagged.

[azureavian]

oh poor B. hope he is doing better by now. i imagine the attachment worked both way as cats always socialize us as much (or more) than we socialize them. ::pets:: to your brother.