We Didn’T Even Know Your Name

Salmon Kitty would just appear.

All cats have the ability to sneak up. But this one seemed to have one of those “Star Trek” molecular transporters.

Maybe her stealth had something to do with being mostly black, with just a few splashes of white.

She’d seem to magically materialize there by my feet in the garage or on the front porch as I reached for the paper in the darkness.

Sometimes she wanted to be let in. Others, she just needed a pat on the head.

“You’re good,” I’d tell her, and sometimes she’d reply with a nonchalant meow.

Salmon Kitty got killed by a car a few weeks back. And it wasn’t until after she was gone that I began to realize how often I looked for her.

Sometimes I still do, out of habit. Only now, she’s never there.

It’s true. You can miss a pet even if it wasn’t really yours.

I never knew much about her, not even her name. (I started calling her Salmon Kitty after she enjoyed some fresh fish I gave her during one of our first encounters a couple years ago).

I once referred in a column to this cat licking my hand and, as a result, had conversations about her with several of my neighbors. Nobody was absolutely clear about whether she had an owner. The consensus seemed to be that she had been abandoned or dumped.

I’m not even sure about her gender. Though I referred to Salmon Kitty as a she, this feline could have been a neutered male.

But two things were evident: She seemed healthy and she wasn’t missing meals.

The couple across the street gave her tuna. I myself discovered that she liked roast beef and Vermont cheddar. And the family a couple of doors down let her come inside and sack out on her own special towel.

She had quite a circuit worked out.

Apparently, however, she made it clear that she wasn’t interested in being a full-time indoor boarder.

Salmon Kitty was sort of the neighborhood pet. More than once, I saw people I don’t really know bend over to stroke her. That always made me think, “He must be an OK guy.”

If you got your face too close to her, she would occasionally let you have it with a lightning left jab. Most of the time, though, the black cat was pretty sweet.

I miss the shin rubs.

I miss looking out the window and seeing her stretching in the back yard. I miss the tiny suspense that used to accompany opening the door.

Some people just don’t get it about cats. They can’t relate to an animal that wants to have things on its terms.

But when one of these little lions appears at your feet and asks if you want to be friends, there’s no mystery. It’s a compliment.

I’m glad I said “Yes.”