Lorrie Moore - Birds of America

“A cat,” she said.

“Whoa-boy.” He wrote something down, muttered, looked dismayed.

“Can I ask you a question first?” asked Aileen.

“Certainly,” he said.

“Do you offer Christmas specials because of the high suicide rates around Christmas?”

“ ‘The high suicide rates around Christmas,’ ” he repeated in an amused and condescending way. “It’s a myth, the high suicide rates around Christmas. It’s the homicide rate that’s high. Holiday homicide. All that time the family suddenly gets to spend together, and then bam , that egg nog.”

She went to Sidney Poe on Thursdays—“Advent Thursdays,” she called them. She sat before him with a box of designer Kleenex on her lap, recalling Bert’s finer qualities and golden moments, his great sense of humor and witty high jinks. “He used to try to talk on the phone, when I was on the phone. And once, when I was looking for my keys, I said aloud, “ ‘Where’re my keys?’ and he came running into the room, thinking I’d said, Where’s my kitty ?”

Only once did she actually have to slap Sidney awake — lightly. Mostly, she could just clap her hands once and call his name— Sid! — and he would jerk upright in his psychiatrist’s chair, staring wide.

“In the intensive care unit at the animal hospital,” Aileen continued, “I saw a cat who’d been shot in the spine with a BB. I saw dogs recovering from jaw surgery. I saw a retriever who’d had a hip replacement come out into the lobby dragging a little cart behind him. He was so happy to see his owner. He dragged himself toward her and she knelt down and spread her arms wide to greet him. She sang out to him and cried. It was the animal version of Porgy and Bess .” She paused for a minute. “It made me wonder what was going on in this country. It made me think we should ask ourselves, What in hell’s going on?”

“I’m afraid we’re over our time,” said Sidney.

The next week, she went to the mall first. She wandered in and out of the stores with their thick tinsel and treacly Muzak Christmas carols. Everywhere she went, there were little cat Christmas books, cat Christmas cards, cat Christmas wrapping paper. She hated these cats. There were boring, dopey, caricatured, interchangeable — not a patch on Bert.

“I had great hopes for Bert,” she said later to Sidney. “They gave him all the procedures, all the medications — but the drugs knocked his kidneys out. When the doctor suggested putting him to sleep, I said, ‘Isn’t there anything else we can do?’ and you know what the doctor said? He said, ‘Yes. An autopsy.’ A thousand dollars later and he says, ‘Yes. An autopsy.’ ”

“Eeeeyew,” said Sid.

“A cashectomy,” said Aileen. “They gave poor Bert a cashectomy!” And here she began to cry, thinking of the sweet, dire look on Bert’s face in the oxygen tent, the bandaged tube in his paw, the wet fog in his eyes. It was not an animal’s way to die like that, but she had subjected him to the full medical treatment, signed him up for all that metallic and fluorescent voodoo, not knowing what else to do.

“Tell me about Sofie.”

Aileen sighed. Sofie was adorable. Sofie was terrific. “She’s fine. She’s great.” Except Sofie was getting little notes sent home with her from day care. “Today, Sofie gave the teacher the finger — except it was her index finger.” Or “Today, Sofie drew a mustache on her face.” Or “Today, Sofie demanded to be called ‘Walter.’ ”

“Really.”

“Our last really good holiday was Halloween. I took her trick-or-treating around the neighborhood, and she was so cute. It was only by the end of the night that she began to catch on to the whole concept of it. Most of the time, she was so excited, she’d ring the bell, and when someone came to the door, she’d thrust out her bag and say, ‘Look! I’ve got treats for you!’

Aileen had stood waiting, down off the porches, on the sidewalk, in her big pink footie pajamas. She’d let Sofie do the talking. “I’m my mommy and my mommy’s me,” Sofie explained.

“I see,” said the neighbors. And then they’d call and wave from the doorway. “Hello, Aileen! How are you doing?”

“We’ve got to focus on Christmas here,” said Sidney.

“Yes,” said Aileen despairingly. “We’ve only got one more week.”

On the Thursday before Christmas, she felt flooded with memories: the field mice, the day trips, the long naps together. “He had limited notes to communicate his needs,” she said. “He had his ‘food’ mew, and I’d follow him to his dish. He had his ‘out’ mew, and I’d follow him to the door. He had his ‘brush’ mew, and I’d go with him to the cupboard where his brush was kept. And then he had his existential mew, where I’d follow him vaguely around the house as he wandered in and out of rooms, not knowing exactly what or why.”

Sidney’s eyes began to well. “I can see why you miss him,” he said.

“You can?”

“Of course! But that’s all I can leave you with.”

“The Christmas special’s up?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said, standing. He reached to shake her hand. “Call me after the holiday and let me know how you feel.”

“All right,” she said sadly. “I will.”

She went home, poured herself a drink, stood by the mantel. She picked up the pink-posied tin and shook it, afraid she might hear the muffled banging of bones, but she heard nothing. “Are you sure it’s even him?” Jack asked. “With animals, they probably do mass incinerations. One scoop for cats, two for dogs.”

“Please,” she said. At least she had not buried Bert in the local pet cemetery, with its intricate gravestones and maudlin inscriptions— Beloved Rexie: I’ll be joining you soon . Or, In memory of Muffin, who taught me to love .

“I got the very last Christmas tree,” said Jack. “It was leaning against the shed wall, with a broken high heel, and a cigarette dangling from its mouth. I thought I’d bring it home and feed it soup.”

At least she had sought something more tasteful than the cemetery, sought the appropriate occasion to return him to earth and sky, get him down off the fireplace and out of the house in a meaningful way, though she’d yet to find the right day. She had let him stay on the mantel and had mourned him deeply — it was only proper. You couldn’t pretend you had lost nothing. A good cat had died — you had to begin there, not let your blood freeze over. If your heart turned away at this, it would turn away at something greater, then more and more until your heart stayed averted, immobile, your imagination redistributed away from the world and back only toward the bad maps of yourself, the sour pools of your own pulse, your own tiny, mean, and pointless wants. Stop here! Begin here! Begin with Bert!

Here’s to Bert!

Early Christmas morning, she woke Sofie and dressed her warmly in her snowsuit. There was a light snow on the ground and a wind blew powdery gusts around the yard. “We’re going to say good-bye to Bert,” said Aileen.

“Oh, Bert!” said Sofie, and she began to cry.

“No, it’ll be happy!” said Aileen, feeling the pink-posied tin in her jacket pocket. “He wants to go out. Do you remember how he used to want to go out? How he would mee-ow at the door and then we would let him go?”

“Mee-ow, mee-ow,” said Sofie.

“Right,” said Aileen. “So that’s what we’re going to do now.”

“Will he be with Santa Claus?”

“Yes! He’ll be with Santa Claus!”

They stepped outside, down off the porch steps. Aileen pried open the tin. Inside, there was a small plastic bag and she tore that open. Inside was Bert: a pebbly ash like the sand and ground shells of a beach. Summer in December! What was Christmas if not a giant mixed metaphor? What was it about if not the mystery of interspecies love — God’s for man! Love had sought a chasm to leap across and landed itself right here: the Holy Ghost among the barn animals, the teacher’s pet sent to be adored and then to die. Aileen and Sofie each seized a fistful of Bert and ran around the yard, letting wind take the ash and scatter it. Chickadees flew from the trees. Frightened squirrels headed for the yard next door. In freeing Bert, perhaps they would become him a little: banish the interlopers, police the borders, then go back inside and play with the decorations, claw at the gift wrap, eat the big headless bird.