Our Little Tuxedo Cat

He came to us on Easter ten years ago, blind and terrified and thin and star v ing— just a small black-and-white cat who had somehow wandered into our yard with no way of knowing where he was or what kind of people we might be.

We coaxed him with a can of tuna, tossing small pieces in his direction until he crept close to the door of our house. Then I threw a quilt over him and pulled him into the basement, and my husband shut the door behind us. And just like that, this little cat—who had no reason to trust a single soul—was safe. From that very first day, whenever I was near him, he purred. His little motor ran almost constantly as if to thank us for the kindness we showed him.

We never learned what stole his sight. A dog shaking him hard? A car hitting him? A cruel hand striking him? We’ll never know. What we did know was that his other senses grew fierce to compensate for his lack of sight. He learned how many stairs led to my husband’s upstairs office. He could easily find the top of the cedar chest that let him jump to the foot of our bed. He learned to gently place his paw on our lower legs—just a little cat tap—to let us know he was below us so we didn’t step on him. In winter, he tucked himself onto the HVAC vent inside our closet to keep warm. He knew exactly where his food was, where his litter box was, and where we were.

My nephew watched him round a corner one afternoon without bumping into a thing and declared flatly, “That cat’s not blind.”

But he was. His sweet eyes stayed perpetually dilated, seeing nothing.

My husband named him Crash—for the early days of learning the layout of his new world. It suited him, though eventually the crashing into walls and furniture stopped, and a quiet confidence took its place.

During the pandemic, someone on a Zoom call spotted him in the background of my office and said, “I see you have a little tuxedo cat.” I’d never heard the term, but it fit him perfectly. He was very black, very white, and dressed for every occasion. My sister noticed that the white on his face was almost heart-shaped. That seemed appropriate, too, because he had a sweet, extraordinarily loving nature about him. All he ever wanted was to be near us. We were his people, and our golden retriever was his dog.

Over ten years, we accumulated nicknames for him the way you do with creatures you love. My favorite was “The Long Boy,” reserved for the moments he stretched across the sofa in a seemingly impossible length of cat.

He lived entirely indoors—the outside world was too loud with too many smells that caused sensory overload. He hadn’t felt grass beneath his paws in nearly nine years, and that always made me sad for him. But he had a warm house, and people who loved and looked after him, and a spot every night in the crook behind my knees.

Last week, out of nowhere, he had a bad seizure. Then another. The medications the emergency vet prescribed didn’t seem to work. On a weekend morning, hours before his next dose was due, he had another terrible seizure, and I knew. I had watched a dog die from a seizure in 2012 and had vowed never to let another animal I loved suffer in that way.

We took him back to the emergency vet. I held him, wrapped firmly in a soft red blanket, kissed him on the top of his head, and spoke softly to him while the life-ending drug was given. I don’t think he recognized my voice by then, but I hope he some- continued from page

how knew I was with him and that it brought him some comfort.

And so we are so sad. Our dog has wandered through the house looking for him, and that undoes us. At night, when we turn out the light, his absence at the foot of the bed is heavier than you might expect from a creature so small (he only weighed ten or eleven pounds).

But that’s the thing about the ones who find their way to us. They take up more space in our hearts than we expect—more space than seems possible.

I hope Crash Kitty somehow knows how loved he was. I hope, somehow, he always knew.