Webster’s New World Dictionary defines ‘friend’ as “a person whom one knows well and is fond of,” as well as “an ally, supporter, or sympathizer.” And although no one would think of Zeke as a person, he was a friend in every other sense of the word.
Zeke was born sometime in the spring of 2003. We never knew his biological parents, but his previous owners were obviously not cat lovers, as we found him and four of his siblings hiding out in a garage belonging to my paternal grandparents. Zeke and his siblings were adorable (I’ve never seen an ugly kitten), but ill. We took Zeke and his twin sister (whom we named Lola), and the others were given to friends. We chose the name Zeke for my grandfather, for whom Zeke was a childhood nickname. Lola, unfortunately, passed away a couple of days later (bad heart, the vet said), but Zeke was strong. Zeke was a survivor, and quickly adapted to his new life with us.
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I’ve often heard that pets tend to take on some of the characteristics of their owners, and while this was somewhat true of Zeke, he was definitely his own cat. He was one of the most intelligent animals I’ve ever seen.
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Despite having a standard cat vocabulary (eight billion variations of ‘Meow’), he developed certain physical ticks that were impressive. For example, he learned how to knock on a door when he wanted to come in from one his late-night mouse hunts. This wasn’t anything we taught him; it was something he just picked up on his own. He also learned to control his meowing to indicate different things. A long, low meow indicated hunger, while a rapid high-pitched warble meant “I want to go outside.” Others still meant hello, goodbye, etc. As far as cats go, Zeke was one of the smartest I’d ever seen.
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But back to the definition of friend.
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For the last 5 years of my life, staying alive had been the all-consuming, all-driving force in my life. Leukemia is a petty disease; it doesn’t care who or what you are, it’s an equal-opportunity killer. Once I was out of the hospital, normal life resumed...for everyone but me. My parents went back to work, my friends went about their lives, and I was home alone most days, unable to leave the house thanks to my weakened immune system. I was lonely. I thought that I had traded the prison that was my hospital room for the prison that was my home. There was one key difference about home, though (besides the lack of a sterilized institutional smell) and that was Zeke.
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He was always willing to pay me attention. When I was sad, he would snuggle up next to me, putting one his little kitty arms around my neck as he rested his ear against my neck, presumably listening to my heart beat. His purr had a nice tenor sound to it. It was a welcome port in the storm.
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Zeke had the spirit of an adventurer. Not content to be a housecat, he went out every night, hunting for mice (which he would often bring to me as some sort of tribute) or defending his territory (our 40-acre farm) from other cats and the occasional stray duck. The world was a wonderful place to Zeke, and he spent every minute he could exploring every last inch of it.
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Zeke was not a fighter, but he took no shit from the other cats in our neighborhood. He would put on the bravado until the intruder would leave, then curl up in my lap and quiver like furry Jell-O. He hated conflict, but he always seemed to face it head-on with a brave expression on his face; something I wish I could do half as well.
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Zeke met his end early Saturday morning via a car, and I’m sure it was an accident. We buried him in the backyard near one of his favorite places, a woodpile ripe with the mice he would bring to me as a token of esteem.
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He was a true friend. He was understanding, protective, brave when he needed to be, and a source of comfort and pride for my family, and especially for me. Right now, the world seems like a cruel empty place without him in it. My heart will heal in time, but right now there’s an ever-expanding hole in it, and there’s nothing I can do to fill it.
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Love ya, Zeke. Rest in peace.