Eli was with us for only eleven months. Far too short a time, but enough for me to fall completely and utterly in love with him. And it wasn't just me... Eli was beloved by everyone and everything that came into contact with him. Sean, not necessarily a cat person, was won over by Eli and loved his fearlessness, his loving, puppylike personality. Our dog Riley loved and protected him, and our older black cat Milo seemed to look at Eli as a bothersome but lovable little brother. Eli even made many friends with neighbors both human and feline for blocks around.
He had few enemies, though he bravely chased off the resident alley squirrels, and constantly pestered the next door neighbor's dog by being a taunting presence in her yard. She would bark and worry at him as he hid under bushes and lawn furniture until eventually Eli would pounce and dash out, chasing her around her own yard - quite a humorous sight, and one that both kitten and dog seemed to not-so-secretly enjoy.
Eli came to us from my parents' farm in Iowa, where the barn cats run mostly wild. His mama-cat had abandoned Eli's litter one by one in various spots throughout the large yard and outbuildings, and my soft-hearted mother had in turn taken them in one by one and cheerfully learned how to bottle-feed and pamper newborn, sickly kittens. Maybe that's part of the reason that Eli was always so very personable and cuddly, so comfortable demanding love and attention, and gave his own love and attention back so freely and unselfconsciously.
His squeaky little meow was more of a squawky mraw, mraw, bbrraw sound, and usually signified different expressions ranging from "hello!" to "pick me up" and "feed me" and "rub my ears." Picking Eli up was one of my favorite things in the world. Every day I'd be greeted by Eli, tail stick-straight in the air in the universal cat-speak for "Hi mom." I'd say "Good morning, little one," scoop him up and he'd put his paws on my shoulders and nuzzle his head up under my ear and rub my cheek with his and purr loudly. We called him Diesel Kitty because of his instant, rumbling purr. He loved to be held and would relax as only certain much-handled and good natured cats will do. A soft, fuzzy, vibrating, talking bundle of love, all it took was a hug and he would squint his eyes shut with a look of pure, carefree, blissful contentedness.
He seemed to befriend nearly every creature he encountered. He wasn't afraid of dogs - he would greet even strange dogs on the sidewalk - and played all the time with Riley. He and Riley were good buddies, although Riley often gave me a somewhat patient, put-out look when little Eli took over Riley's great big dog bed and hogged the whole space, perfectly comfortable stealing the dog's bed. Being too kind to actually boot the kitten out, our big dog would simply squeeze himself around Eli and settle for a small corner of his own bed rather than disturb his little fuzzy friend.
Milo loved him too, and they cuddled and slept in a heap, making a black and white combined furball on the couch in between sessions of Eli tormenting Milo with his antics. As a kitten, Milo whomped on Eli, but as Eli grew he began to get braver, and faster, and more energetic than Milo cared to deal with all the time. But even though he pestered Milo constantly like a younger sibling, Milo would still happily greet him and groom him and snuggle up to Eli's sleepy self once he tuckered out.
Eli had other friends too. The orange-and-white neighbor kitty who looked like a cousin of Eli's - they would hang out on top of our garage, jump around our apricot tree. People up and down the blocks would recognize Eli when he came with Sean and I and Riley on our walks. I've never known a cat to come on a complete walk like that, but Eli did it so often I got used to it - though we always garnered remarks from the area residents who thought it adorable and strange and funny, our odd procession of human and dog on our daily walk, with a little grey-and-white kitty trotting right alongside or just behind, then bounding forward to catch up.
Even Idaho, the huge crotchety cat next door, at least tolerated Eli, whereas any other wandering cat that stepped into Idaho's territory was promptly and aggressively advised of his or her transgression and quickly learned to stay away. Idaho would sometimes scuffle with Eli, but for the most part he seemed to grudgingly allow Eli to hang around. Eli was just irresistible.
He was such an amazing little kitty. I guess we were lucky to have had him in our lives at all, even for such a tragically short time. Still, I can't look out from our porch at the street without feeling betrayed. I'm angry at the cold, unfeeling cars barreling down the street, the people who speed through our neighborhood far too quickly. I'm mad at myself, and guilty, too, for allowing Eli to be an indoor-outdoor kitty which cost him his precious life. I keep looking for him still, as if he might magically come bounding out from his favorite spots: under the hedge along the north side of our house, the tangle of flowers and brush near the sidewalk, or down from the tree in the backyard. Sometimes I think I hear his voice. It breaks my heart. I want nothing more than to have him back, to hear that diesel purr against my cheek. But I know in my head, if not yet in my heart, that Eli is never coming home to me again. We miss you, Eli. We won't ever forget how happy you made us. We love you still.