Bag of Bones.

 More like bowl.

 A nice bowl, of course. A vintage white enamel one, specifically. They are my preferred style of kitchen ware. Light, tinsley, and most importantly they harken back to a different time where we cooked our meals over  fireplaces (inside or out) and lit our homes with candles and lanterns. 

So it only made sense to use one for his bones. 

He wasn't my favorite when he died, and this wasn't even my plan initially- to keep his bones- but when the time came it all just seemed to make sense. It still makes sense. I think of him and think, "Yeah, it's appropriate that your skull is on the kitchen sill behind my sink."

It's our cat. ONE of our cats I should say. I clarify this only to show that he wasn't our one and only cat and I've already stated that he wasn't my favorite. But he was the one that both my husband and I came to an understanding with.  The understanding with my husband was: You are cat; you give me what I want and I will give you what you want. The understanding with me was: I am cat- I own you. And he did.

This was solidified during dinner one evening. We rarely feed our cats human food, but every once in  while we would treat them with small portions. This night it was ham. My husband and MiG (our cats are all named from TopGun- story for another time) had more than a few run-ins during his life but the earlier stated understanding they had reached was lived out in a very respectful relationship. MiG patiently lays in his lap waiting to be fed and then ever so gently takes the offered food out of his fingers and eats it without running away. It's passive and kind and they are both rewarded; the cat with food, my husband with a warm ball of fuzz that he can pet. I, apparently, did not deserve the same level of respect according to this creature. As he prowled around me practically demanding that I feed him this piece of ham, I am by necessity, trying to get him to JUST CHILL like he does with my husband, refusing to give him anything until he does. I have a slight lapse in judgment and turn my back for a second. MiG was clearly waiting for this opportunity and moves like lightning - pulling my arm back with his paw, digging his claw deep into my finger, and extracting the ham efficiently but painfully bolting off to a corner to eat. He essentially slapped me in the face and said "Bye, Felicia." 

My finger hurt for a week.

And that's pretty much how it stayed.

 So, when he died and the ground was too cold to dig a grave, we covered his body and left it in the back corner of our yard. And we forgot.

Then spring came: birds sang, flowers bloomed, bodies decayed.  

 

 We found his remains while throwing the frisbee around with our kids. We took a few minutes to reflect on this guy while we gathered his bones because it seemed like the right thing to do. Only remembering the good times, we talked about what a glorious cat he was- a Russian Blue with the thickest most plush fur we've ever known. He was big and masculine and beautiful. He was a great hunter and single-handedly saved us and our chickens from a rat infestation in their coop. When he first came to us, a stray baby kitten left on the side of the road not more than a few weeks old, he was runty and ugly with an oversized head. He also gifted our entire house, humans and animals alike, with ringworm. Thanks, MiG. But he grew into this beast that you just had to love. And love him, we did; though I'll never be sure the feeling was mutual. 

So, with a lot of love and a bit of defiance, I transferred his bones to one of my favorite bowls where he still remains. The bowl will never be used for anything else- it's his grave. And his skull is placed respectfully on my kitchen window sill for me to see every day. And I remember him- his good and bad.

I didn't know it then but I think part of why I kept his body was a final claim to victory over this tempestuous animal. You may have gotten the ham, but I've got your bones. You died, I win.

And I say with the utmost respect, "Bye, Felicia."