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| Our buddy Butters, staring through your soul |
I now fully understand why Bob Barker ended every episode of The Price is Right with his trademark sign-off, "Have your pets spayed and neutered". It makes sense, because of a cat named Butters.
Butters is the small, steely-eyed, raggedy tabby who took up residence under our steps, having found in the cracked cement base a safe haven from elements such as the harsh Kansas winter and our territorial pets, to name a few.
He's been around since we moved in a few years ago, though sightings were few and Sasquachian in nature. He'd leer at us from inside the bushes; follow us with his eyes as he sunned himself on top of the drain pipe; scurry into the bowels of the stairs as we approached the door. Our welcome mat resembled an orange shag carpet, the result of hours perched atop it when we were at work, or tucked in comfortably at night.
Butters showed absolutely zero affection for us, and even less for EK, our untamed stallion of an indoor/outdoor cat (he himself a street rescue who shows a bit more affection - though to be fair, he does so by urinating on our stove). The two of them would scuffle periodically, shaking the bushes from the inside, with EK typically bolting scattershot out like he'd been lit on fire, having likely had the crap scared out of him by this tiny, intimidating cat.
Friendly neighbors had been putting out food for Butters, and even provided him a shelter for the winter, though I suspect that his cement foxhole under the stairs was a more comfortable place to stay during the cold and rainy season. It was when those neighbors moved away that Butters began appearing at our door, meowing for food, trying his best to not look like a jaded war vet who might stab (or in his case, scratch) us.
That this happened during last winter's polar vortex made the decision to feed the little guy an easy one. We'd set food and water out as we left for work, and come home to one empty bowl and a block of ice. Warmer water worked slightly better, but it became apparent that Butters's hydration window was a short one.
We had no idea how this skinny cat who was smaller than a half-eaten Chipotle burrito, survived a period of time that was so cold that newscasters were warning humans not to spend more than five minutes outside, and to leave no part of your body exposed. Melody would dig out heaps of snow blocking his subterranean stairway entrance so that she could toss a handful of cat food inside in the hopes that he hadn't turned into a Buttersicle.
Days passed without seeing his alternately terrifying and adorable face, and we feared his luck had run out. We wondered how feral cats survive conditions like that, as we guiltily layered our warm bed with blankets, and used our indoor pets as additional insulation. We weren't emotionally attached to Butters as we are to our pets, but as we provided for him more and more, his skittish and snarling ways began to provide our household with a constant source of conversation, debate and humor.
When the polar vortex had passed and the snow line was receding, we nervously awaited the fate of our roughshod feline friend. We spoke of the worst, but hoped for something more humane. Then Butters did what we had come to expect him to do - he casually appeared right before us, seemingly out of nowhere, hungry as ever.
We have no physical evidence that Butters hibernated (or is part vampire, for that matter); in fact a simple Internet search confirms that this is impossible. But how the hell did he survive such intense cold? Regardless, we were now fully invested in his well-being, and willing to provide to keep this enigma of a cat alive.
As months passed, we developed a familiar rhythm. I would open the door to take my dog on her morning walk, then pandemonium would ensue. EK would barge in, so I'd shoo him ahead of me, and go down and fill his bowl with food. Then, when I returned, Butters would have awakened from his underground haven and magically appeared by his bowls, crowing for his meal. I'd grab both bowls carefully, maintaining constant eye contact with Butters so as to not expose myself to unnecessary danger of the scratching variety. Back down to the basement to collect his food, up to the kitchen for water, then I'd deposit both bowls by the rocks that became his feeding area.
Though he became more and more comfortable with us, he never broke character. Once, when I surprised him while he was balled up on our doormat, he didn't immediately freak out as I approached. He cooly walked away, but didn't run. I gently offered the back of my hand as he slowly backed up towards his stair-hole. I was confident that he was going to let me pet him. Our family would grow.
What happened next was quick and regrettable. I slowly stroked the top of his head between his two ears, and no sooner did I finish the motion, his front paw swiped at me with the speed of a samurai, leaving scratch marks in the tiny flap of skin between my fingers. He shot me a perfectly calm yet serious look, "What'd you expect?"
And so the parameters of our relationship were cemented. Boundaries were tested, lessons were learned. I suppose I'm glad he didn't let me pet him, because it would have made me want to bring him in closer, to treat him as one of our own. And it would have made Melody jealous.
Accepting our lot in his life took time, but yielded a measure of satisfaction. We were concerned that he was diseased - FIV or Feline AIDS is a real thing, and it's terrifying - but he seemed to be managing, and a trip to the vet was out of the question. You know, because of the scratching thing.
We invented back stories for this scarred and resilient cat, whose name we chose as an homage to the lovable yet picked on blond South Park character who you can't help but root for. We're only assuming he's a "he", since guessing his sex is better than getting stitches.
It's never a good sign when I receive multiple calls from our town home office during the day, and this time proved no different. Instinctively developing cover stories for what could have possibly happened to our rent check, why our dog was barking or whose fault it was that our house burned down, I was mentally preparing for a variety of situations.
The verdict was quick and direct - Animal Control had been called, the office manager told me, because our cat was lying under a car, wallowing in pain. After a few seconds, it was clarified that the cat was "the tiny tabby", and not EK. I felt relieved, then immediately guilty. The manager told me that the cat had likely been hit by a car, and his back legs seemed to be badly damaged. EK was by his side under the car, consoling or guarding him in an apparent display of feline brotherly bonding. This uncharacteristically sweet display by our sometimes stubborn cat proved that Butters had uglied his way into EK's heart as well.
I can't imagine that a cantankerous cat, small, feral and human-averse, will be given the proper vet treatment to fix car-crash injuries. It took months for his curmudgeonly ways to win us over, and that was with a seemingly healthy body. I imagined him lying there, stoically, telling the vet to knock the dirt off and splint him up. But that's likely not what happened.
We were in the uncomfortable position where it was somewhat of a relief that he was going to be put down, in that he wouldn't have to suffer through another winter or offer himself up as a play toy to the larger feral cats that stalk our community. Though Melody and I had already been planning different ways to help Butters through this upcoming cold season, we couldn't help but be speculative as to whether or not he'd survive. Selfishly, it feels good that we now won't have to.
Losing this ancillary member of our family had a deeper impact than either of us realized. We'll miss his constant yet distant presence, and look at our front bushes differently as we no longer scan them for his beady eyeballs. If we had kids, we'd tell them that we sent Butters to "the farm", but I can't even imagine him softening up to the point that he'd let himself into a barn, nevertheless the farm house.
Nope, Butters would find a nice tree root to camouflage himself into, or an overturned barrel to take up residence. Eat mice and whatnot. He'd hiss at fellow barn cats, and scratch any human that tried to pet him. Because in the end, Butters is a walnut: A thick yet breakable outer shell with an inside that's just as hard and stubborn. He won't let you in, but that's for your own good. He's a lone survivor. Just not a very good one.
So have your pets spayed and neutered. The less alley cats out there, the less chance they have of uglying their way into your hearts and home.
Butters: May he angrily rest in peace.
