Oliver scrutinized his desk with a critical eye. It usually presented a state of what one might call creative chaos. But today he planned to leave early since it was his birthday, a small milestone.
Additionally, Oliver had taken an extra week off as part of his vacation, planning to relax with his family by the lakes, so he decided to tidy up his workspace. “Well, it looks like it’s in order,” he thought. His gaze fell on a photograph in the corner of the desk, and a soft melancholy washed over his heart. More so, a yearning for something precious yet unattainable. Larger versions of the same photo hung in his room at his parents’ home and in his own living room. He remembered that day clearly, despite the passing years, not just because it was his birthday.
Oliver and his brother were sitting on a bench outside their house. The elder brother was recounting the plot of the latest action movie they had seen at a video parlor, dramatically acting out the main characters. Enthralled, they didn’t notice when their dad’s car pulled up.
His cheerful voice brought them back to reality. “Hello, son. Happy Birthday.” His dad smiled at Oliver, pulling something from behind his jacket. “Here’s a little gift for now,” and he revealed a small, fluffy kitten. The kitten was grey, with white socks on its paws, and was looking around in wonder.
Their mom emerged from the doorway with a blue sports bag in hand, the one dad often took on trips. “We have to leave for a bit, son. But I’ve got the main gift for later. Here, hold this,” dad said, handing the kitten to Oliver. “Give him some milk when you get home. I’ll be back by the weekend; we’ll go to the store, and you can pick out a gift for yourself, okay? And then we’ll head to the zoo.” Dad hugged both sons and tousled their hair. “Will you be gone long?” Mom asked. “No, I should be home by tomorrow evening,” he replied, taking the bag from her hands. “Hey, let’s take a photo for memory’s sake,” mom suggested.
They had recently bought a camera—a popular point-and-shoot—and mom was eager to capture as many life moments as possible. “I’m in a rush,” dad smiled sheepishly. His colleague, Uncle Tom, sitting in the driver’s seat, honked and tapped his watch meaningfully, smiling at them all the while. Dad waved in response, indicating with his hand to wait a minute. He placed the bag on the ground, took the kitten in his arms again, and Oliver with his brother stood beside him.
They smiled at the camera, unaware that the kitten would turn out to be Oliver’s only gift. And the last. Because their dad never returned from that business trip. It emerged later that he and Uncle Tom were tasked with transporting a substantial sum of money in cash. It was the 90s when such transactions were common, and someone tipped off the bandits.
Mom recounted that the investigator believed they didn’t intend to kill them. The robbers seemed to have tracked them, waiting for a quiet stretch of highway to stage an accident and seize the money. But something must have gone awry, and the impact was too severe; dad’s car veered off the road, overturned, and caught fire. Neither the informer nor the attackers were ever caught, and after a couple of years, the case was quietly filed away. Whenever mom recalled those times, she would say, “I don’t know who those people were, nor do I want to. God will judge them. But I’ll never forgive those who could have helped and didn’t, instead fleeing to save their own skins.”
They were buried the same day—dad and Uncle Tom—in closed caskets. Oliver stood beside his weeping grandmother, dad’s mother, unable to grasp that his father lay in that dark red velvet-covered wooden box. Perhaps that’s why he continued to rush to the door with hope at every ring for over a month. He hoped it was all just a bad dream, that the door would open, and his dad would step through, cheerful, alive, with a faint scent of cigarette smoke and gasoline. Dad had his own keys, but he consistently rang the bell upon returning from trips, prompting Oliver to be the first to greet him, and dad would smilingly pull a gift from his bag saying it was from the bunny. His brother, being older, would tease him, “Where would bunnies get presents? There are no shops in the woods,” he’d laugh. “Oh, you little lad.” But Oliver wouldn’t mind then and was immensely proud that woodland creatures knew of him and never forgot.
Yet, dad did not come back, and eventually, the boy concocted a fantasy that dad hadn’t died but had been turned into a grey cat by a wicked magician. This fantasy grew richer with details over time, and Oliver sometimes began to believe it. Now, Oliver couldn’t understand if it was a defense mechanism or a naive child’s belief in miracles. But then, these imaginings probably helped him through the initial, acute pain of loss. Much later, as he and his brother reminisced about those distant days, they found themselves sensing something unusual. As if dad’s soul had strangely inhabited the grey kitten. Throughout the kitten’s, and later the cat’s, life, they felt dad’s invisible presence. Like he was somehow nearby, yet unseen. But back then, as children, they shared this feeling with no one, not even each other. They named the kitten Butch after a character in Disney cartoons which aired every Sunday.
Oliver, his brother, and their mother grew very fond of the cat. He became, without exaggeration, a mascot, a protector of their family. He saw them off and welcomed them back from school, then from university, and mom from work. Whenever someone fell ill, Butch stayed near, purring soothingly, settling on the painful area, trying to warm it, and wouldn’t leave until the person recovered. The cat lived a long life with them. But time is relentless, and one summer evening, it quietly passed away. By then, the older brother was married living separately. On hearing the loss of their beloved pet of many years, he rushed over. The family bid the cat farewell together. Because how else? It was a living memory of their departed father. The father remained in their memory just as he was on that last day—cheerful, slightly hurried, holding a kitten. Oliver wasn’t certain, but it seemed mom felt something similar; that’s why, on the memorial stone, besides a full-length photo of father, she had the artist depict a deserted road with a car racing towards the setting sun at her request. They buried the cat at the edge of town in a then-young pine forest. Although several years had passed since then, with only a slight mound remaining from the grave, Oliver remembered the spot well. Each time he drove by, he would invariably turn there to stand for a few moments, honoring the memory of their years-long pet.
Without a doubt, it was a family member, whose passing marked the end of an era in his life. The era of childhood and youth. Taking one last look at the photo and sadly smiling at the flooding memories, Oliver picked up the laptop from his desk, wiped the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand, and left the office.
Back home, everyone was already waiting for Oliver. Everyone was there—his mom, his brother with his family, and a few close friends. Once everyone gathered in the living room, his brother and nephews ceremoniously brought in a box and handed it to him. Everyone clapped, while the nephews, grinning slyly, urged him to guess what was inside.
Family and friends knew of Oliver’s fondness for computer games, so he started guessing, “Is it a fancy joystick, a racing wheel? Did I guess right?” The nephews shook their heads, laughing, before opening the box. Oliver glanced inside and sank onto a chair someone had thoughtfully pushed close. Childhood memories flooded back, and tears rolled unbidden from his eyes. But he wasn’t embarrassed by them. Inside the box sat a kitten, exactly like the one his dad had once gifted him. Grey, fluffy, with white socks on its paws. Memories swirled around him. Dad, Butch… Back in childhood, Oliver would spend hours talking to the cat, confiding his childhood secrets, joys, and sorrows. The boy had a strong sense that he was talking with his living father. At least, he felt heard by him.
And Oliver secretly held on to that belief, even as an adult. The cat would look at him with an understanding, almost human gaze and gently, soothingly purr.
Now his teenage daughter, coming home from school, would first head to the kitchen, where her discontented voice would soon sound, “Why are Butchie’s bowls empty?” “Come here, little one, I’ll feed you now.” And their kitty, having only recently gobbled up its portion of food and washed it down with fresh milk, gave Oliver a sly look before scurrying into the kitchen at the call of its young mistress.
