I had this black and white cat. She was like a calico with an absence of orange. She wandered in and out of my house at her own will. She lived a familiar life. She slinked outside of the house once the door was open and pushed her way through the dirt stained rubber dog door flap to come in. She would slide through the gates. She would hop and jump to heights that would transport her over metal chain-link fences and on top of gritty rooftops. Some days I would bring myself up the curved driveway then there would be a blur of black and white, sprinting towards the door, right past me. Some days I would come home and find her, plopped down on the smooth concrete porch, waiting patiently for the small girl and her mother to let her in.

She was a cute cat, big pale green eyes and a pink nose that had edges splashed with gorgeous jet black. Her body’s base color was a mellow white with big splotches of a spread out black arbitrarily poured onto her coat of fur. Her face was that cream white with black spilling back from the top of her head. She had been there since I could remember. She was a part of my familiar life. I never came home thinking I wouldn’t see that petite round face of the cat I had always known. I grew up with her. 

The cat grew with my brothers too. The cat grew in a stoic way, you wouldn’t even have noticed anything had changed when strands of the black fur were replaced by silver. The cat grew while the rest of us did too, except our changes seemed more apparent. When my brothers left to lead their individual lives, to finally become the people they wanted to be, I was home without them, but the cat remained, same as always. 

She was a strong cat. She fought off any little animal enemies she needed to and triumphantly dragged in her prize mice to lay them on the beige matted carpet. 

When she got older her skin began to sag, most apparent on her belly, it started to hang a bit lower than it had before. She became more feeble. She aged as any living creature would. She lost the weight that must have contained her strength. She ate less of the dry cat food she had always mowed down out of the same transparent blue feeder. She still would slink in and out of the house, but her vigor had seemed to have worn its welcome.

I examined this part of her life more carefully. I was always home, watching the ways of the familiar cat. She seemed more peaceful, but she was probably just too worn to be the same wide-eyed cat. 

I wasn’t ready for her death. It was late winter, the air was still frigid. The tree branches didn’t sway that day. The air was still. The day's events had seemingly frozen the air in place. She didn’t die the way she should have. Her death was too violent for her kind life. Her body was torn apart on that mid-morning. The neighbors had once again let their pitbulls escape their yard. The dogs that had been instilled with a cruel nature found her, that delicate cat, her body soiled with blood. That was the end, her life ended with a vicious death. It should have been a kind death. She went out screaming. She should have gone out quietly. It nauseates me every time I think of how I could have spared her that sharp drawn out death if I had just let her in that morning.

I found out she died in the calmest tone. The words weren’t drawn out. There wasn’t any preface for the news. I was told “Roxy died”. That was it. The messenger made the news seem empty, like there was just another creature taken by mother nature. Maybe that is how I should have viewed it. Maybe the whole event was how it was supposed to go. Maybe she was meant to be a winter cat. A winter cat stranded in the frigid outside air, lifeless in a cold nature scene.  A winter cat that can finally sleep now that the hibernal weather allows. 

She was beautiful. I wanted to go back and pay attention to her every slight movement and realize how truely remarkable she was. Every step she took was graceful. I think I should have attended to every meow that came out of her feline mouth. I wish I would have watched her and never blinked. Maybe, I could have caught those silver furs replacing the black. Maybe, I could have brought her into the house. Maybe, I could have just stroked her head and scratched behind her ears and let her purr. I want to do that again. I want to see her again. 

I remember when I would seek her out and pick her up in the kindest way I could. I would carry her to the couch with me and recline the brown sofa, lay out a blanket, and place myself on the chair in a way that would be most comfortable for her. I would pet her and feel that tender vibration of her purr. I would sit back and read a book. It was a sweet thing, it was simple, there was nothing more to it, but now there seems to be a new value to this mere memory. It's a mere memory but it has become a reminder of a different time where the familiar black and white cat still lived in my home. My black and white cat, forever resting in the winter weather.