It was the day after Thanksgiving that the decision was made to send Mr. Cocoa off to eternal slumber. He was twenty-years-old, November being his birthday month, and not doing well at all. He had an infection in his mouth and was losing weight. His legs could no longer support him and he could barely make the step up to the kitchen. We gathered together, the entire family, wrapped Cocoa in a blanket and took him to the Veterinarian. We sat together and stayed with him during the entire process. It was quick and painless for Cocoa. We went back to my parents’ house and in the backyard, right next to Little Lily’s resting place, we laid Mr Cocoa in the grave my father dug earlier in the morning. We took turns covering him with dirt. “I’m gonna miss you, buddy,” my father said.

It was my dad who brought him home mid-February 1987. He was at a junkyard in Philly and the cat who roamed the junkyard had a litter of kittens a few months earlier. The man who owned the junkyard bought a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken every afternoon to throw to the the cats to devour. My father was amazed at how the momma cat allowed all the kittens to eat first before she ate. My father remarked at what a nice cat she was and the owner grabbed the littlest cocoa-colored kitten and said, “You can have Cocoa.” My father called my mother and told her he was bringing home a boy kitten. My mother protested, “NOT A BOY CAT!” It didn’t matter. He was already in his van driving home with the little kitten perched atop his head.

I was 12-years-old and in 7th grade. I walked through the door as I did every day with the intent to grab food and watch an episode of Doby Gillis except I was stopped dead in my tracks. There was a little black cat curled up on the sofa. I softly sneaked up and started to pet him. He had the smoothest, shiniest fur and he looked like a mini-panther. We watched Doby Gillis together that afternoon.

As much as I want to say that Cocoa was my cat, he wasn’t. That cat loved my mother. He adored my mother. It makes sense. She was the one who fed him and nursed his wounds when he got into fights with the other outdoor cats. She was the one who grabbed him and held him when he appeared that one evening at the back door with a stick poking out through his eye. She was the one who gave him twice daily injections of insulin for his diabetes. He loved her. The house is going to be much more quiet and far less interesting without that crazy junkyard cat mewing for his food or coming home all beaten up. He is with Lily and Kiwi and Whiskers, waiting for us.

Goodbye, Mr Cocoa!