Since I had no friends, most nights I would stoop outside my apartment just to catch some glimpse of the living. Barely alive, head held low, dispirited and alone, I would crouch on the second step a soda in hand and try to breathe. Breathing is harder than you think, when you’re a living like a ghost.
Sometimes, longing for some company, a friendly soul, I would sneak Claude up to my apartment and just chill. Illuminated fuzzy black fur, a silhouette against the glow of the television set, he never left my side. For hours, he would just sit, cozy on my couch, content to lie by my side. After hours, afraid that the girl across the complex would notice he was gone, I let him go, wandering his way home deep into the dark of the October moonlight.
The night Jessica called late, letting me know about a body laid out black against the yellow road lines, I knew. I just didn’t want to confirm what my gut already told me, so I waited a few days somehow secretly hoping it wasn’t Claude. Coming home from work a few days later, there were signs stuck with transparent tape hung everywhere, missing posters with a picture of Claude. Heartbroken, I delayed, terrified of calling, secretly hoping someone else would break the news to this girl, his mommy. Maybe a day or so went by and I decided I had to call. It was the only right thing to do. My voice shaky, I dialed, “I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I think Claude was hit by a car…”
Burying Claude just below the edge of the canal dock, holding my breath and trying not to look, I put his flattened little frame in the hole and covered it with mud. Claude, four paws and a big ball of fur, was literally my only friend during those difficult last months before rehab. He used to sprint across the parking lot at the snap of my fingers, just to see me, hang outside on my stoop and watch the sun die. I don’t know how exactly to explain how my soul got wound up, bound and tied up to him. He was just a stupid cat.
