The music is "Yesterday"
This is my Hootie Boy. His full name was Yahootie Menyuwin Edwards. He and his brother, Mashuga, an all-white shorthair, were the only survivors of their mother's first and only litter. Sadly, Shugie was killed on the road that runs past our house before he was a year old. Hootie lived for five wonderful, fun-filled years. He loved to explore the bean field next to our house--he would stay there for hours, apparently hunting mice and other critters. One summer afternoon I heard him crying loudly, as if in distress, somewhere in the field. I called to him, but he just kept howling. Finally, I recruited Tim to go with me into the field--I was sure Hootie was in trouble. We plunged over ditches and through brush into the field, heedlessly breaking down rows of beans in the process. Finally, after ten or fifteen minutes in which my bee phobia had reached its full force, we saw him. He just sat there and looked at us as if to say, "Well, dummies, I wondered how long it would take you." Not to be shamed by a mere cat, I told Tim, "Pick him up and carry him home." Tim did so, and left the field for the roadside--easier to walk on than beans. That was a mistake. Hootie squirmed out of his arms and went racing back into the field. Knowing he was OK and just having a game with us we trudged back to the house, covered with dust and bean leaves. Later that day when we called him to supper he wasted no time getting there. I could swear he winked at us as he went in to the food dish.
On another of his hunting trips he came into the house carrying a huge frog, its legs dangling from his mouth and dragging the floor. Hootie opened his mouth to say, "Looky what I caught," and the frog naturally escaped. It crouched on the floor, and I told poor Tim (who has to do all this stuff) to see if it was still alive. He bent over and touched its back, which caused it to leap about ten feet across the kitchen, which caused Tim to leap three feet into the air.
Hootie spoke in a loud, strident voice--and he spoke often--when he wanted out, when he wanted in, when he wanted to be fed, and whenever he felt like it. Usually it was a loud, "Maw?" when he wanted any of the above, and a softer "Maw?" when he came to me for attention. And he always got it--he was a genuine "Mommy's Boy" and took full advantage of that position. He would lie on the couch beside me and roll around with his head in my lap., demanding that I tell him how adorable he was. I sometimes called him my Smarmy Darmy or my Smarmalade Cat, other times I sang the Addams Family song to him, changing the first line to "The happy little Hootie", and making up other words to go with it.
At times he wanted out so badly (especially at night, when we wouldn't let him out) that he would howl and pace the room for what seemed like hours. We called this his cranking-out mode, and gave him another nickname for it--Crankenstein.
There came a time when he wanted out that he didn't have the strength to howl, or even walk to the door. I won't go into details about his illness--just that he lost weight rapidly, then began staggering and walking unsteadily--all in a matter of a few weeks. The vet tested him for leukemia--it was negative. The vet was encouraged, gave him more antibiotics--all to no avail. At the last, he lay on the floor in a corner of the kitchen, too weak to move much, and barely able to eat. I had been giving him liver and broiled fish, hoping it would strengthen him, but he ate little of it.
On his last day, he did eat! A lot! I was encouraged when he got up and walked to the glass door to look outside--I was sure he was getting better. Later that day he left us, never to return. Choking on my tears (as I'm doing as I write this, nearly three years later), I watched while Tim buried him beside the deck.
Hootie Boy, there will never be another one like you...I loved you so, and still do. I'll never forget you. See you at the Bridge.
