I’m heartbroken to share that I lost my beautiful boy Butters on Friday, June 8. The first time I saw Butters in the Humane Society, I knew he was my cat, but the HC wouldn’t let me adopt him because Butters was a “difficult” cat who had been adopted and returned and “didn’t get along with other cats. He needed to be in a single cat household.” Never buying into such nonsense, a plan was hatched, and with a certain degree of subterfuge, Butters was adopted the next day by a friend and delivered to my home… And made instant friends. The first photo I have of him is shoulder-to-shoulder with Mason, staring out the front door screen. They became lifelong buddies, the two fattest cats happy to share a carrier on a Rt 66 adventure across the country (although they both attempted escape) or sit on their momma after Thanksgiving dinner. Butters was the quintessential feline ambassador; he simply could not accept that there may be people in the world who didn’t want to be his best friend, and he made every effort if you met him to show that. He led the other cats in creating a Von Trapp-esque greeting line for arriving guests, but he did not suffer unkind people gladly; Butters not liking someone was a strong indication of their character or lack thereof. He chattered endlessly and had an opinion on everything; particularly when a can opener came out or the water in the sink hadn’t been turned on for him quickly enough. He also chirped and cooed, charming and awing even the most experienced veterinary staff. He was a great defender and protector, racing to the front door when he heard the gate and always breaking up cat fights, and usually swiftly chastising the instigator. Butters delighted in being a pain in the ass too. He had an innate sense of when party guests would arrive, escaping out the back door to jump down into the trench to eat grass, just out of his momma’s reach, so I would have to don my bunker gear to go fetch him. Thus, guests would arrive to see me in gear, all hot and sweaty, hauling the fat orange cat, swishing his poofy bottlebrush tail and covered in brambles, back into the house. I’m pretty sure he was grinning. Neither cocktails with cream in them nor the Christmas tree were ever safe from him (Although he’d always be my dance partner to Tom Petty’s ‘Christmas All Over Again’ to kick off the holiday season), he was a master food thief, and he had a strange penchant for chewing on hair if you rested your head to close to him on the couch. But he was a gentleman, and he would always hold a door open for me with his paw when my hands were full. Most importantly, he always wanted to be right next to his mama, whether it was first thing in the morning while I had my coffee or last thing at night on the couch, Butters was always right next to me, unless he was offering himself as a pillow instead. He even figured out how to position his chin just so when I was typing on my laptop so he could get an unintended chin scratch. In the last year and a half, Butters handled his illness with grace and dignity, never being difficult with needle sticks or blood draws, always charming everyone who cared for him. Butters was by my side through all the moving, divorce, domestic violence (Except for when he snuck off to pee on Army boots. Good boy.), deaths in my family, and the criminal investigations and the civil litigation. He’s been waiting for me every time I’ve come home after a bad call and has always comforted me when I cried. The best thing I heard on the day he died was that Anthony Bourdain must have really needed a cool cat to accompany him on his next adventure. Butters certainly would have been that cat. The emptiness he’s left behind in my home and in my heart is palpable and he will always be missed.
