These words will not be worthy of him, but they are all I know how to say.
Everyone who loves cats probably has their own memory of The Best Cat In The World. Buster is mine.
For C, it may have been Karma; they had a connection that I could only orbit around, not join. So maybe C gets to have two Best Cats.
We did have cats after Karma, but it wasn’t the same… until we got Buster and his sister Ruby, in early 2012. I don’t know how C managed to open his heart again as fully as he did, but Buster was completely irresistible.
Ruby left us a long time ago, and she always had her own mysterious agenda anyway. We loved her, and worshipped her according to the style that she permitted, without knowing her very well.
But Buster? He was Ours Forever, from the moment we met him in Milo Foundation and he wound himself around C’s neck like a scarf that was wearable in any weather. The Milo people said, “Don’t you want to foster first, to see how it goes?” Not a chance.
*Buster loved us right back.* Yes, I know, “cats don’t”, but this one did, and he was as much of a companion as any dog ever was. That bottomless well of sweetness was All Ours, right away and all the time.
Even so, he was personable and interested in every other being that came through the door, interacting, gently inquisitive, inspecting, purring. Taking possession of their bags and shoes. Supervising, if they were trying to work. Tolerant and accommodating, if they were a new sibling we foisted on him.
Buster was an enormous cat, but Ruby, his half-size-sibling, was definitely his boss for as long as she was here. (She figured stuff out and he happily followed.) Later, he never took advantage of his size to lord it over Zach or Hiro. I don’t think he understood the concept of territory. He was aware that he had a very pleasant existence, and he was confident that he deserved it, but he was okay with spreading the wealth around.
Those super-model golden eyes just connected with you, that super-sized panther body gave you, human or beast, his very best cuddles, and that super-loud bass purr made you happy even if you were not a cat person.
I am memorializing who he was, and how he was with us, because I can’t bear to talk about how he died.
He won’t ever really leave us. We still arrange our bodies to suit his preference, on our bed, which is also his. We still perform every action in this house with expectations of how he will react to it, and of what we will say to him about it. And of how he will chirp and chuckle and chortle to let us know that he is participating in it, all the way and whatever the plan.
Maybe when we put his ashes into the ground in one of his favorite garden places, along with his favorite toy, maybe then things will feel different and he’ll stop being so present in the house. I don’t think so.
