Image by Tony Hurst
My Real Memoir
Once our mighty warrior cat Mr. B had passed away, Ginchy became the unchallenged CIO (cat-in-charge). He was incontestably the cleverest feline who ever lived. Not that he was all brain and no brawn. He was an indoor/outdoor cat, after all, and we did live across the street from that legendary wilderness known as The Field.
The primary evidence of Ginchy’s “other life” (as an operative, no doubt, for a secret cat intelligence agency) was his mysterious disappearances. After one three-day absence, he showed up, leaning against the patio door. Mom scolded him for “worrying her sick!” then let him in, only to discover he’d brought an exotic foreign gift: a rare, matched set of mouse ears. My poor brother-in-paws was so famished that, despite his extreme exhaustion, he dragged himself into the kitchen and lay down with his head in his food dish. So Mom opened a can of catviar and plopped it near his mouth. For the rest of the day, Ginchy would repeatedly open his eyes, take a bite, and then fall back asleep again, never actually lifting his head from the dish.
By evening he was back in full indoor cat mode, playing hide-and-seek with me, cuddling with us in front of the TV (his favorite show was Top Cat). He was the very model of a modern mouser-general: a peace-maker who could talk the most volatile bruiser tom down, and a world-class adventurer who always made time for his family.
Other cats came and went, each learning the ropes from Ginchy: From the adorable but woefully short-lived Li’l Poot; to the sleek black Carmichael (named for political activist Stokely Carmichael); to the oddly lovable Streisand who, like his namesake Babs, had a long nose and close-together, nearly-crossed eyes (but sang far less prettily). “Stry” lived with us the longest after Ginchy.
But only Ginchy came of age with me.
After my father died, Mom moved in with her sister Aunt Tavia. And my cat-brother Ginchy came to live with me. I was the director of a tiny school of the arts at the time, and the venerable old cat became our mascot. In fact, I had to lock him out during dance classes because he’d try to rub against the ballerina’s legs while they were going up en pointe. But after class, he was always the center of attention.
Then he disappeared one final time, and never came back. I like to think my brother Ginchy is on a secret mission in that vast eternal field, and that I’ll see him again one day. Only this time, I’ll be the one…
Who comes home.
My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.
Mitch Teemley 
Aww great kitty story! 😻
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Thanks, Paula. He was a great kitty.
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Sorry for your loss…I presume you mean the cat died. What’s with the euphisms … could be very confusing to those who don’t speak the lingo.
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Not a euphemism, he simply didn’t come home, and I never saw him again. But, yes, because he’d always come back before, and because he was 18-years-old, it’s likely that he died. How or where I’ll never know.
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what if 43-years-old
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What a journey you two had together. So sad how he left. But it was his way. It is giving me goosebumps.
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Aw, thanks, Erika.
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It was very touching 💖
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Off the whole post, the part that truly touched me and pricked at heart, is this one…”And then he disappeared one final time. I like to think my cat-brother Ginchy is on a secret mission in that vast eternal field, and that I’ll see him again one day. But this time, I’ll be the one…
Who comes home.” It made me feel the loss. And something beyond explanation.
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I’m glad, my friend.
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I’m sorry he never came home – I imagine him out there in the world being his best immortal cat self!
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:>)
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Wonderful heart-felt read.
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Thank you, Anita.
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A good story and slightly sad… Grinchy is waiting for sure…
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Cats do make for the most interesting companions. Mark Twain and Hemingway were bona fide cat fans.
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Hi, Mitch. How many cats do you currently have?
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Just one.
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There’s always something that will remind us of loving pets now passed away. We’re ready for another cat.
Art
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