James carefully surveyed his desk. It typically had what one might call a creative mess. But today, he planned to leave early. It was his birthday, a modest milestone.
James had also asked for an extra week’s vacation to enjoy some time with his family by the lakes, so he decided to tidy up his workspace. “Well, that seems better,” he thought. His gaze fell upon a photograph in the corner of the desk, bringing a quiet sadness to his heart. Not quite sadness, but a longing for what was dear yet irrevocably lost. Enlarged versions of these photos adorned his childhood room and his own living room.
He remembers that day vividly, even though many years have passed. Not just because it was his birthday.
James and his brother sat on the bench outside their flat. His older brother was recounting the plot of another action movie they had seen, mimicking the main characters. Lost in the story, they didn’t notice their dad’s car pull up.
Their father’s cheerful voice brought them back to reality. “Hello, son. Happy Birthday to you.” Smiling, Dad reached into his coat. “Here’s a little present,” he said, revealing a tiny fluffy kitten. The kitten was grey with white paws, looking around curiously.
Their mother emerged from the building with a blue sports bag in hand. It was Dad’s usual travel bag. “Son, I’ve got to leave for a bit. But the main gift awaits you. Here, take the kitten,” said Dad. “Give him some milk when you get home. I’ll be back by the weekend, and we’ll hit the shops so you can choose a gift for yourself, alright? Then the zoo. Dad hugged them and ruffled their hair. “Will you be gone long, Victor?” Mom asked. “No, should be back tomorrow evening,” he replied, taking the bag from her hands. “How about a quick photo for memory’s sake?” Mom suggested.
They had recently bought a camera, the trendy “point-and-shoot” model, and Mom was eager to capture every moment of their lives. “I’m in a rush,” Dad smiled sheepishly. Indeed, his colleague, Uncle Tony, sitting in the driver’s seat, honked and tapped his watch meaningfully, smiling at them. Dad waved at him to wait a moment, set the bag down, picked up the kitten again, and James and his brother stood on either side of him.
They smiled at the camera, oblivious that the kitten would be James’s only gift. And the last. Because Dad didn’t return from that trip. As it turned out, he and Uncle Tony were carrying a big sum of cash. It was the ’90s, such transactions were commonplace, and someone tipped off the bandits.
Mom later said the investigator believed they weren’t meant to die. The robbers were likely watching, waiting for the road to clear to stage an “accident” and seize the money. But things went awry, the impact was too strong, and Dad’s car veered off the road, overturned, and caught fire. Neither the informant nor the attackers were found, and a couple of years later, the case quietly went cold. Whenever Mom reminisced about those times, she’d say, “I don’t know who those people were, and I don’t want to. God will judge them. But I’ll never forgive those who could have helped but didn’t and ran to save their own skins.”
They buried Dad and Uncle Tony on the same day, in closed caskets. James stood beside his weeping grandmother, Dad’s mum, not comprehending that his father lay in the wooden box draped in dark red velvet. Perhaps that’s why he ran hopefully to the door every time the bell rang for over a month. Hoping it was all a bad dream and any moment, Dad would walk through the door, cheerful, alive, slightly smelling of tobacco and petrol. Dad had his keys, but every time he returned home from a trip, he’d ring the bell, and James would rush to greet him as Dad, smiling, would pull out a gift from his bag, claiming it was a present from the Easter Bunny. His older brother would mockingly ask, “How can a bunny get gifts? There aren’t any shops in the forest,” he’d laugh. “Oh, you little kid.” But James didn’t mind and was immensely proud that the forest creatures knew and remembered him.
But Dad didn’t return, and over time James concocted a fantasy that Dad hadn’t died, but an evil wizard had turned him into a grey cat. Each time, this story in his imagination became more elaborate, to the point where he almost believed it himself. Even now, James isn’t sure what it was—a defense mechanism or naïve childhood belief in miracles. But those fantasies perhaps helped him survive the acute agony of loss. Much later, he and his brother, reminiscing about those distant days, felt a strange sensation. As if Dad’s spirit really somehow inhabited the grey kitten. Throughout the time the kitten, and later the grown cat, lived with them, they felt the invisible presence of their father. As if he was always close by, just unseen. But as children, they shared this with no one, not even each other. They named the kitten Butch, after a character from Disney cartoons aired on TV every Sunday.
James, his brother, and even their mother grew to love Butch dearly. He became, without exaggeration, their family’s talisman and protector. He’d see them off to school, college, and Mum to work, and warmly welcome them. Whenever someone fell ill, Butch stayed nearby, calmly purring, and would lay on the affected area to provide warmth until the person got better. The cat lived a long life with them. But time is relentless, and one peaceful summer evening, Butch passed away. By then, the older brother was married and lived separately. On hearing of their long-loved pet’s death, he immediately visited. They all bade the cat farewell together, for he was a living memory of their departed father. Dad is forever remembered exactly as he was that final day—cheerful, a bit rushed, with a kitten in his arms. James suspected Mom felt similarly because, aside from the full-length photo of Dad on his tombstone, there was, at her request, a desolate road with a car speeding into the sunset. They buried Butch on the outskirts of town, where the young pine forest stood. Though many years have passed since then and only a faint mound remains of the grave, James remembers the spot well. Whenever he drives by, he always turns in to stand for a few moments, paying tribute to their cherished companion.
Without a doubt, the cat was a family member whose passing marked the end of an era. An era of childhood and youth. Taking another look at the photograph, James smiled wistfully at the memories that surged through him, picked up his laptop from the desk, wiped damp eyes with the back of his hand, and left his office.
James was awaited at home. Everyone was gathered. His mum was there, his brother with his family, and a few close friends. Once everyone was assembled in the living room, his brother and nephews ceremoniously brought in a box and presented it to him. Applause erupted, and the nephews, with sly grins, asked him to guess what was inside.
Family and friends knew about James’s passion for computer games, so he began guessing: “A fancy joystick, a racing wheel? Did I guess it?” The nephews shook their heads with laughter as they opened the box. When James peeked inside, he practically collapsed onto the conveniently placed chair. Childhood memories rushed through his mind, and unexpected tears filled his eyes. He wasn’t ashamed of them. Inside the box sat a kitten, just like the one his father had once given him. Grey, fluffy, with white paws. The memories flooded back—Dad, Butch… Back then, young James would spend hours confiding in the cat, sharing his childhood secrets, joys, and sorrows. He had the strong feeling he was talking to his living father. At least, he believed Dad listened.
James secretly held onto this belief even into adulthood. The cat would give him an understanding, almost human look, accompanied by a soft, comforting purr.
Now it’s his teenage daughter, who, arriving home from school, heads straight to the kitchen. Within a minute, her displeased voice echoes, “Why are Butch’s bowls empty?! Come on, kitty. Here you go, little one, I’ll feed you now.” And the cat, having recently enjoyed his meal and a sip of fresh milk, glances cheekily at James before scurrying to the kitchen at his young mistress’s call.
