r.i.p. edgar poe (2001-2011)

This is my last photo of Edgar Poe, who succumbed to a rare and very aggressive form of cancer (cholangiocarcinoma) on July 26, 2011. His final illness was so short, he first told me he was sick--by refusing breakfast--on a Thursday, then the following Tuesday morning he died.

This wasn't intended to be a good photo or anything--just a quick pic as a reference for a painting. I tried to get started on making a painting from it, but I'm so busted up, I can't bear to look at it for very long.

Edgar was a terrific artist's model. (See my album "The Cats" for my paintings of him and his sister, Annabel Lee.) He was a curious, mischievous, playful, and very loving kitty. He never really grew up: he was always a kitten in his personality.

Edgar Poe had a way of being hilarious, no matter what he was doing. He seemed to view life as an endless series of jests--some purely happy, some tinged with irritation or melancholy. Like this picture--I was trying to get a shot of Edgar looking over his shoulder at me, and had taken quite a few that weren't what I wanted. Then he turned away from me on the couch, I said his name, and he looked back over his shoulder. His expression here perfectly captures his sarcastic attitude at the moment: "Oh Mom....what is it now?"

One of my doctors said of this photo, "He looks like George Burns."

That's Edgar to a T--comedian George Burns, with that ever-amused, ever-amusing view of life he had.

Edgar Poe was also a terrific companion during my insomniac hours, 2 to 5 in the morning. He was not a sleep-loving kitty: he slept a few hours in the afternoon & maybe a couple more at night, but most of the time he was wide-awake, alert, ready for action.

When he was younger, he loved athletic games--the more demanding, the better. He played Bird and Mouse and Squirrel and Bug--even Fetch, just like a dog. I used to build a mountainous terrain out of pillows in the middle of the living room, for him to chase the toy around and up and over. He would thrill with the keenest anticipation while I was piling up the pillows, bouncing like a marionette on the tips of his toes, his eyes round and way wide-open. It was all I could do to keep from laughing and shouting and waking my husband, as we played on through the night. Edgar would get so fagged, he'd be puffing and panting, but of course I always ran out of energy before he did.

Then as he got older, he liked to be near me when I was doing something that captivated my brain. I know this sounds strange, but it was as if my thoughts were the game he was playing. And that's why he dearly loved it when I was sleepless and reading. He got so close to me, he almost blocked the pages. He would settle down in the crook of my left elbow, and purr and purr, so loud it was amazing. The more enthralled I was by the book, the louder he purred, his ears all perked up and his whiskers twitching. I could even tell he preferred my reading fiction to nonfiction, because I'm more excited by the former. He was so physically close at such times, I could feel my heart, pounding faster as the story heated up, thudding right against his chest.

Now the insomniac hours are empty. It's 3 AM, my husband's asleep, and Edgar's sister, a drowsy kitty, is curled up with him under the covers. I don't have a partner for my night-time reading any more. The novel I was working on when he got sick sits idle with a bookmark in it. How can I go back to it without Edgar Poe at my side? All I can do is watch movie after movie, trying to shut down my grief with shoot-em-ups and suspense thrillers.

Edgar died a month short of his 10th birthday. We didn't have nearly long enough time with him.

Anyway....if you're still reading this, thank you for being there to write to. It helps. It really does.

Fi