"Nevermore"

Lance and I knew that one day we would have to write this entry, but we never expected it to be so soon: Our beloved Poe cat is gone. He went missing last Wednesday night, and we spent the next several days frantically looking for him, searching his favorite napping spots--the attic, the smokehouse, and the barn loft--and walking all over the farm calling out his name: "Poe Poe Kitty!" Our hopes rose with every movement, every dark shadow--"There he is!" But what we thought was Poe turned out to be just a black hen, scratching for worms, or a piece of torn black plastic, blowing in the wind.

On Tuesday morning--nearly a week after we had last seen him--Mike, our contractor, finally found him in the eave of the house. Apparently, he had crawled up under the insulation in the attic to bed down--and never woke up. I have no idea how Mike found him as he was so far down in the soffit, but we are so thankful that we could finally stop searching and fearing that we would never get to see him again. He had some blood on his nose, but otherwise, he seemed unharmed. The vet thinks he probably died of a pulmonary embolism. Mike built him the sweetest little coffin, and Lance and I buried him with some cardinal feathers--as cardinals were one of his favorite snacks.

Needless to say, the farm will never be the same without our "fearless warrior cat." He was one of those rare animals who holds sway over you, who earns your unconditional respect without ever demanding it. We would joke that he was a "pharaoh cat descended from royalty," and we would spend hours just watching him: perched under the bird feeder, tail whipping in anticipation of a songbird snack; slinking through the woods like a panther; rolling around in the dirt; sunning in the garden near the catnip; trotting down the driveway at night, yellow eyes flashing in the head lights; snubbing the affections of Pippin, his frisky "younger brother." Everything he did was worthy of study--as if he were a Master Jedi Cat imparting his infinite wisdom of the universe upon two Padawan learners.

We first met Poe on August 31, 2002--the first day we looked at the farm. As soon as we entered the barn, we heard a noise in the rafters. We looked up, and there he was: a shiny black cat climbing down to greet us and making his characteristic squeak: "Eeh Eeh." Immediately, he seemed to trust us, and immediately, we were enamored with him. I made Lance ask the current owners of the property if the cat came with the farm--a question that Lance was certain would decrease our chances of haggling for a lower price. "If they know you like the cat, then they know we want the farm. We have to play hard to get." I've never been good at that game, so we took our chances and expressed our interest in the farm's feline resident. The owners assured us, that yes, the cat did come with the farm. They had taken several of the barn cats to their new home, but they had left the black one--"Phantom," they called him--because he would disappear for days and seemed weary of humans. What? The cat we knew was no misanthrope! He was wildly affectionate, always bounding out of the barn to meet us when he heard our car in the driveway so he could get a "whole butt rub." We decided to keep quiet about his charm, though, in fear that they would take him back. Luckily, that didn't happen, and we secured the farm as well as our new friend, whose name we changed to Poe, after Edgar Allan. We quickly learned, though, that even though we had bought the farm with our money, Poe truly owned the place; he was "the lord of the manor." It was like he had always been there, and would be there long after we were gone. We seemed mere visitors, just passing through.

Poe was obviously used to fending for himself, so when we set out a self feeder for him in the smokehouse, he thought he had struck gold. No more did he have to hunt and capture his food, bite off heads, and chew through bones and fur. Now, his food came in handy little morsels--and in an all-you-can-eat buffet! We found out quickly, though, that the self-feeding option wasn't going to work. The day after we set the feeder out, we found him hunched beside it, big as a balloon with a stomach full of Iams, and ready to pounce on any potential thief. Eventually, we fell into a rhythm of feeding him in the morning and evening, and he could still catch birds and mice for an occasional snack.

We tried many times to keep him in the house, but he didn't take to lounging around like his brother, Beaker. Poe was a "fearless warrior cat," and fearless warrior cats don't lounge. They explore and protect the homestead--perhaps too well, as Poe was apt to fight off intruders, namely other cats who came snooping around at night. Undoubtedly, he would suffer a wound from these duels, and undoubtedly, he would get an abscess, which would need to be lanced and drained by the vet. During times of convalescence, Poe would willingly stay indoors, though he would sometimes forget where to use the bathroom--as when he peed in the air vent. Before we discovered his crime, he bounded out the door into the woods and was gone all day. That evening, he brought us the largest bunny that he could carry--as a peace offering. "I'm sorry I peed in your vent. Accept this paralyzed bunny as a token of my regret. Here, I'll bite its head off for you." A compassionate warrior indeed.

Over the years, we coined many nicknames for him: "Toonces" (he would often jump up into the car with us and put his paws on the steering wheel); "Bat Cat" (Lance would often make him "fly through the air" like the Dark Knight); "The Dread Pirate Black Butt" (every pet needs a Princess Bride nickname); and "Buster Brown Leg" (one of his back legs had a streak of brown fur on it) were a few of our favorites. But the one that best captures Poe is simply "the greatest cat in the world." And he was.