George carefully examined his desk. It usually had what people often called ‘creative chaos.’ But today, he planned to leave work a little earlier. It was his birthday, a small milestone.
He had asked for another week off, planning to relax with his family by the lakes, so he decided to tidy up his workspace. “Looks decent now,” he thought. His gaze fell upon a photograph in the corner of the desk, and a quiet sadness washed over him. Not exactly sadness, more like a yearning. A longing for something precious that’s irretrievably lost. Enlarged versions of that photograph hung in his room at his parents’ house and in the living room of his own home. He still remembered that day vividly, though many years had passed. Not just because it was his birthday.
George and his brother sat on a bench near their apartment building. The older brother was enthusiastically recounting the plot of the latest action movie he’d seen, animating the main characters. They were so engrossed that they didn’t notice their father’s car pulling up. His cheerful voice brought them back to the present. “Hey there, son. Happy birthday!” their father said with a smile, pulling something out from under his coat. “Here’s a little gift for now,” and he revealed a tiny, fluffy kitten. The kitten was grey, with white paws, and looked around in surprise.
Their mom emerged from the building, carrying a blue sports bag. It was the one their dad usually took on business trips. “Sorry, son, I have to leave for a bit,” she said. “But the main gift is with me. Here, take this,” their father said, handing the kitten to George. “Just give it some milk at home. I’ll be back by the weekend, and we can go shopping so you can choose your own present, alright? Then we’re off to the zoo.” He hugged the boys and ruffled their hair. “Are you gone for long?” the mom asked. “No, I’ll be back by tomorrow evening,” he replied, taking the bag from her. “Why don’t we take a photo for memories?” their mother suggested.
They’d just gotten a new camera and she was eager to capture as many moments as possible. “I’m in a rush,” their father replied, slightly embarrassed. His colleague, Uncle Tim, sitting in the car, honked and gestured impatiently. Their father waved, signaling for a minute. He placed the bag on the ground, picked up the kitten again, and George and his brother stood on either side.
They smiled at the camera, oblivious that the kitten would be George’s only gift that year. And the last. Because their father never returned from that trip. As they later learned, he and Uncle Tim were supposed to transport a large sum of cash. It was the 90s when such dealings were common, and someone tipped off some criminals about it.
The police later said, as George’s mom recounted, that the attackers didn’t mean to kill them. They’d been waiting for the road to clear to stage a collision and make off with the money. But something went wrong, and the car crashed off-road and caught fire. Neither the informant nor the perpetrators were ever found, and a few years later, the case quietly faded into obscurity. Recalling that time, George’s mom would often 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 just ran to save their necks.”
George stood beside his weeping grandmother, his father’s mother, at the funeral, and couldn’t grasp that his father lay in that dark red velvet-lined coffin. Perhaps that’s why, for over a month, he ran to the door at every ring, hoping it was all a bad dream. That the door would open, and in would walk his father—cheerful, alive, carrying the faint smell of cigarettes and petrol. His father had his own keys, but upon returning from trips, he always knocked, and George would rush to greet him. His father would smilingly pull a small gift from his bag, saying it was from a bunny. His brother would tease, “How do rabbits have gifts? There aren’t any stores in the woods,” with a laugh. “Silly boy.” But George paid no mind. He took immense pride in thinking the woodland creatures knew him and never forgot.
But his father never returned, and over time, George concocted a tale—a fantasy that his father hadn’t died, but a wicked wizard had turned him into a grey cat. The story grew more elaborate in his imagination, and he almost began to believe it. Now, George couldn’t quite explain if it was a defense mechanism or a child’s naive belief in miracles. But perhaps those fancies helped him cope with the initial sharp pain of loss. Much later, as he and his brother reflected on those distant days, they were struck by a strange sensation. As if their father’s soul had somehow found its way into the grey kitten. All the while the kitten, and later the adult cat, lived with them, they felt their father’s invisible presence, like he was nearby, unseen. Yet, during childhood, they kept this to themselves, even from each other.
They named the kitten Butch after a character in the Disney cartoons aired every Sunday on TV. George, his brother, and their mom all grew to love the cat dearly. It became, without exaggeration, the talisman and guardian of their family. It would see them off and welcome them home—from school, university, or work. When anyone fell ill, Butch stayed close, purring soothingly, settling on the sore spot, trying to warm it. He wouldn’t leave the person’s side until they recovered. He lived a long life with their family, but time marched on, and one summer Sunday evening, he quietly passed away.
By then, George’s brother had married and lived elsewhere. Upon hearing of their beloved pet’s death, he immediately came over. The cat’s farewell was a family affair. How could it be otherwise? To them, he was a living memory of the father they’d lost. Their memory of their father was always of that last day—cheerful, slightly rushed, holding a kitten. George suspected his mother might have sensed something similar, given that on the back of their father’s gravestone, in addition to a full-length photo, she had an artist depict a deserted road with a car heading towards a setting sun.
They laid Butch to rest on the city’s outskirts in a then-young pine forest. Even years later, with barely a mound left of the grave, George remembered the spot well. And each time he drove by, he would stop to pay respects to the long-loved pet. A family member, really, whose passing marked the end of an era—his childhood and adolescence.
After another glance at the photograph and a bittersweet smile at the flood of memories, George grabbed his laptop, wiped his moist eyes with the back of his hand, and left his office.
At home, everyone awaited him. His mother, brother with his family, and a few close friends had gathered. Once all were assembled in the living room, his brother and nephews ceremoniously brought in a box and handed it to him. Applause ensued, and with sly grins, his nephews asked him to guess what was inside.
The family and friends knew about George’s love for video games, so he began guessing. “A fancy joystick? A racing wheel? Did I get it?” His nephews shook their heads, laughing, and opened the box. George peeked inside, and his legs gave way, landing him onto a conveniently placed chair. Childhood memories raced through his mind, and tears flowed freely, unchecked. Inside the box sat a kitten, exactly like the one his father had once gifted him—fluffy, grey, with white paws. Memories overwhelmed him—his father, Butch…
Back then, George would spend hours talking to his cat, confiding his childhood secrets, joys, and sorrows. He felt certain he was communicating with his living father, whom he believed was listening. Even as an adult, George secretly held on to that belief. The cat would gaze at him with an almost human understanding, gently purring reassurance.
Now his teenage daughter, upon returning from school, heads straight to the kitchen, where a moment later, her perturbed voice can be heard. “Why are Butchy’s bowls empty?! Here, kitty kitty. Come here, little one. I’ll feed you now.” The cunning little furball, having recently finished his meal and sipped some fresh milk, would dart to the kitchen at his young mistress’s beckoning, casting George a sly look.
