Remy

The Butlers said he weighed just two and a half pounds when they found him under their house.  They gave him milk from a baby bottle and named him Remy.

He was not a mouse like his namesake, the Disney character in the animated film Ratatouille.  By the time I saw much of him, he was a full grown gray cat, a little on the thin side.  Ordinary looking perhaps, but anything but ordinary acting. 

Everyone on our block knew Remy, and most had a story or an opinion about him.  Even though he was technically the Butler's cat, he seemed to belong to us all.  He loved to play chase with Jacque, the fluffy bichon puppy next door.  He was not a friend to everyone or to every animal, however.  He was known to terrorize George, our other next door neighbor's Jack Russell terrier.

More than anything else, Remy was known for slipping into people's houses and even businesses. He would just be right at the door when it was opened. "You know he goes into the Germantown Cafe," confided Mike, the owner of Zackie's hot dogs.  Sam would burst into fits of laughter when Remy would slip through our door and find his way into our home. 

A few months ago we had some additional flooring laid down in our attic.  This required that the front door stayed open for little periods of time.  I called one of the workmen we had hired to see if he needed anything.  Mr. Scott assured me that everything was fine, but he added, "I think that one of your cats got out."  As I opened my mouth to reply, "We don't have any cats," I of course realized of whom he was speaking. 

Remy wore a little bell around his neck, which made his ability to sneak up on people all the more impressive.  Maybe the bell hung there to give the birds he loved to chase fair warning.  I'd often hear a little jingling in the trees in Lane and Jeanece's yard and know that Remy was on the prowl. 

There were times that I probably could have stopped Remy from coming into our house, but I enjoyed rubbing his soft head, hearing him purr, and watching him roll onto his back seemingly wanting his belly rubbed.  More like a puppy it seemed than a cat.

It is a wonder Remy stayed so thin.  We were one of at least three families who fed him.  Remy would come to our back door and meow pleadingly just about every day.  Sam and I would give him milk.  We even went so far as to purchase him his own little red dish. 

Sadly, however, we never got to give Remy milk in his new dish.  One day this spring we learned that Remy had been shot and his legs were mostly paralyzed.  One of our elderly neighbors, upset about Remy disturbing his flower garden, shot him with a pellet gun. 

In the days that followed, Remy continued to be his spirited self even while paralyzed.  He escaped from our neighbor Ben, who was looking after him while the Butlers were out of town.  Luckily, Drew and Ben found him.  We all wondered if Remy would get better.  Sam, Kevin, and I included him in our prayers at night. 

One day in late spring we had our answer.  "Remy is no more," Drew said.  His owners had him put to sleep.   

Sam has never mentioned again the little cat that started to seem like our own, but I wonder if he feels like I do.  Does he miss the sound of Remy's little bell or the sight of him walking along the top of our fence?  Does he miss his sweet playful ways?  There is little red dish that sits on the deck at our back door.  I don't have the heart to move it just yet.