RIP, Nancy.

Nancy Lee Johnson was nondescript, just another gray-striped tabby, and he got stuck with a girl’s name from the time he strolled through the back gate, but he didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. What’s a name, anyway? He was a smart cat. He’d chosen his people well, and they could call him what they wanted to call him. It wasn’t like he was going to answer, anyway.

He was just going to do his job, diligently patrolling the back-back yard and letting Farkus think he ruled the front back yard. That’s just the kind of cat Nancy was. He didn’t have to prove anything to anyone or any cat.

A murmuration of starlings could, and often did, circle him on the back porch, chattering and eating the cat food two inches from his head, but Nancy slept on. He might have been deaf, but more likely he just didn’t sweat the small stuff. He’d eaten his fill, and it was time for a nap. So he napped. That’s what smart cats do.

Smart Cat Sleeping

  When Farkus stood on his hind legs and battled the inside cats through the storm door, Nancy sighed and watched, seeing him for the fool he was. Fighting cats on the other side of a piece of glass was for suckers. What a smart cat did was eat, sleep, roll over for the occasional pet, and keep his part of the property free of interlopers. Anything else was overkill. And Nancy was a very smart cat.

Nancy got sick fast, but he didn’t crawl under the house or burrow under the brush behind the shed and wait to die.  He knew what smart cats did. He crouched in the yard where he would be seen. Because he had chosen his people well, he knew they would take care of him when he could no longer care for himself. And they did.

RIP, Nancy. You were a very smart cat, and we were lucky to have you.