Sir Henry Whitaker

After spending the day in Savannah and getting home in mid-afternoon Goddess was dying for a walk. She jumped up and down like a monkey-humper ready to go. Because of an early morning meeting followed by others, she’d had a quick walk and then I was off. She is accustomed to more.

She’s hard not to love when she’s like this so I grabbed the leash from the top of the fridge and off we went. It was the same path, take a right out of the front door and stroll to the marsh. Hang a left until we get to the next left where Shirley lives. There is a thicket there that begins the boundary of Goddess’ playground and in the summer there are rabbits in it. Goddess will slow down to a hunter’s craw, stealth, and silent. And oblivious to the face that I’m walking as normal. The rabbits hear me and dash to the thicket. Goddess chases and never wins.

The playground ends at Shirley’s sad little holy dock. Lately, because there is no traffic this time of year and Goddess loves to run, I’ve taken to throwing her leash up in the air when we get to the beginning of the turn and say, “Go!”

She takes off for the thicket. Then she runs in a dead heat to the sad little holy dock and only then does she look back to see where I am. She waits until I get there and then she jumps on the dock, I follow, and we make our way to holiest of holies where the choirs of mussels sing.

Yesterday was different though.

We turned the corner, I threw the leash up in the air and said, “Go!” and Goddess took off for the ticket. Then she turned and looked at me before taking off for Shirley’s house. It is an unspoken rule that she cannot cross the road and normally I just make this sound “Psifff” and she stops and waits.

But not yesterday! She made a bee line to the porch and stood there. I yelled and cussed but she paid me no attention. She stood there, nose to screen, looking.

For as long as I’ve known Shirley, I’ve known her cat Henry Whitaker, a fat, white ball of fur. The cat had an amazing voice and had long transcended the ability to meow. Henry Whitaker could moan. Beckon. Make cat calls. And never be in a hurry about any of it.

Many days Goddess would stand on one side of the screen, tail waging and hyper as she can be staring at Henry Whitaker who was completely unconcerned that there was a dog in her face.

Finally I walked over and grabbed her leash and drug her away. We finished our walk and back at home I fired up the computer and learned that Henry Whitaker had died.

I immediately looked at Goddess and asked “How did you know?”

A few weeks ago I had dinner at Shirley’s house. We swap back and forth hosting one another or going out. This time we sat in her kitchen and ate flounder and just talked. Fireworks went off at one point outside and we decided we’d rather just sit there and talk. Of course Henry Whitaker was there.

I remember stroking him once and thinking about a song from the musical “Cats” by Andrew Lloyd Webber; “Gus: the Theater Cat”. “His coat’s very shabby, he’s thin as a rake, and he suffers from palsy which makes his paw shake. Yet he was in his youth the smartest of cats…”

That was the last time that I saw Henry Whitaker.

So I immediately called Shirley because I know all of the ways that Henry Whitaker got her through bad times and celebrated good times too. Goddess gives me that so if you have unquestioning loving friends like that … well then you’re very lucky.

Then I got up and put the lease back on Goddess. “C’mon,” I said. “Let’s go say bye to Henry Whitaker.”

So she looked again at the porch. Then we went to the sad little holy dock and said prayers together. For Shirley. And for Henry Whitaker.