Frostie, a beloved barn cat, died last week of complications from lymphoma. Frostie was born on this ranch 10 plus years ago, to a feral mom and a stray, but tame, dad. He had five brothers and sisters and his mom, Hissie, moved the kittens from a Mercedes chassis in my husband’s shop to under the gas tank behind the house. Frostie was a handsome, leggy, silver gray tabby and he survived, and I’m sure outlived, many of the predators who would have loved to have him for lunch!
In losing Frostie, I lost a dear friend. I was his “only human:” no one else could pet him or pick him up. Most mornings he was waiting for me near the porch, appearing from out of nowhere and standing at my feet. I would pick him up, snuggle him into me, and bury my nose in his fur. Then I could listen to him purr all the way to the barn.
It was like that for us. Even though he’s gone, I catch sight of him everywhere. The heart has a different sense of reality. In a couple of weeks I’ll pick up his ashes at the animal hospital and will scatter them in one of the places where he hung out on the ranch. It will just be the two of us, like always.
