Chester and Boo

by Charles C. Cole

Chester Biggs discovered the one true love of his life, an orange female kitten named Bucephalus, at a single-wide trailer, a humble farmhouse cursed with long-term do-it-yourself kitchen remodeling, still in progress. The owner, a multi-tour war vet and single parent, had dramatic facial scarring and only one eye; he’d seen plenty of frontline action.

The new farmer was now trying to adopt to a simpler, quieter life of self-sustenance, live and let live, which apparently included co-habiting with an unspayed, uncollared outdoor adult female cat. The absent and unnamed new mother — literally called “Cat” — was apparently not much more than a kitten herself. No one knew the father; he never visited in the daytime.

“Boo,” the last remaining of Cat’s first litter, frolicked in the shadow of free-range chickens in the muddy dooryard. Boo was polydactyl, four claws short of the world record, a turnoff for more traditional pet-seekers. At the time, she was smaller than Chester’s outstretched hand. She chased determinedly after a hen that was dragging a single strand of hay stuck to its clawed feet and, somehow, though not without effort, managed to wrest it free!

Chester picked her up and held her nose close to his own. ‘Would you like to come home with me?” he asked. “I don’t have chickens, but I have brightly colored fish in a bowl who you really need to meet! Other than that, the house is completely yours.”

As if to make a point, Chester made a bowl with both hands, and Boo single-mindedly wrestled with her straw, kicking it into submission with both hind feet, without objections or distractions from being manhandled by a towering stranger. Chester was impressed. And he was smitten.

Boo rode home on Chester’s shoulder, relaxed enough and small enough to curl up and nap (after a while) just below his left ear.

In the early years, Chester adored and spoiled his trilling cat friend like an only child. They were, after all, the uncaged entirety of the household. Boo met him at the door at the end of a workday. She dined beside Chester at supper, her little yellow plate next to his microwavable meal and, later, raced him to bed, sleeping on the pillow beside his.

She turned on the remote control by lying on it. When Chester watched a movie on the television, she did too, at least until she fell asleep. She liked car chases, with the volume adjusted, especially from late 60s action movies. When Chester cooked popcorn, Boo told him it was ready before the microwave oven beeped. She preferred the generic store-brand versus the big-name variety.

When Chester brushed his teeth, Boo “reminded” him to turn off the water when Chester intentionally left it on. She even used the oversized — for her — porcelain toilet instead of a litter box, which always impressed Boo’s human grandmother.

Though an indoor cat as a rule, Boo was allowed outside to oversee weekend yard work. When Chester mowed the lawn, with his whispering manual-push Fiskars, Boo followed row by row, sometimes harmlessly herding toads or grasshoppers out of the way.

Then, way too soon as far as Chester was concerned, Boo got old: 14 years for her. She gained noticeable weight even though she’d become a picky eater. She limped when she walked. The veterinarian found nothing wrong, positing arthritis and suggesting managing the discomfort with pain pills. She trilled less and meowed more, especially when Chester was late getting to bed, having binge-watched one more streaming sci-fi series.

And Boo, once patient and unperturbable, seemingly pouted and ran upstairs when Chester returned late, having stopped for Happy Hour with the guys from work. He tried to make amends with extended lap time or treats, but Boo acted cold and uninterested, for a time. To be sure, Boo had always been inflexible and uneasy with any change in routine, but she’d typically adjusted in her subtle way and bloomed with selfless affection.

One warm summer day, while she was overseeing Chester’s yardwork, Boo took a break. She sat down to soak up the sun’s rays and the fresh air. Several chickadees were flitting about the blue spruce she and Chester had planted together. Two squirrels chased each other in the old cortland apple tree, a housewarming gift from the previous owner.

Boo rolled on her back and gently, weakly sighed. Chester was finishing a row and didn’t notice immediately. When he did, he paused and sat beside her. Boo never took breaks. Chester playfully rained loose grass trimmings on Boo’s belly. Then he escalated the teasing by tickling Boo’s chin with a fresh-cut daisy stem.

In her youth Boo would have clawed sportfully at this disturbance, maybe stood and shaken off the debris, scampered a short distance away and cleaned herself. This time, however, she didn’t react. In fact, she never noticed. Though her eyes were open, Boo was in a deep sleep from which she would never wake.

Boo’s human grandmother offered that Boo’s passing, while unexpected, was better than a medical emergency in the middle of the night that would still have resulted in putting her down or chronic incontinence or a long hard journey with many pills. Yes, but even so, thought Chester.

Boo left this world the way she’d arrived: outdoors with her friends, entertaining her neighbors, adding a little more joy and silliness to everyone around her, certainly having fully appreciated the brief life she’d been gifted. So thanks to Boo and the many others like her who make life more interesting. For the record, we vividly notice the difference when you’re gone.