IN LOVING MEMORY OF
BENJAMIN
2009 – 2018 · THE FIRST CAT OF THE 305
“He got here first. He'd want that on the record.” — Max
THE FIRST CAT
Before Arthur. Before Maurice. Before me. The house belonged to Benjamin first — he walked in at twelve weeks old and skipped the part where a cat warms up to you. Benjamin loved you on day one. Loudly. He had a raspy, unreasonable voice and he used it with intent, mostly to tell you things you already knew, like that it was dinnertime, or that your lap was about to have a cat on it.
That was his signature move: the lap policy. Every lap in the house was his — residents, guests, repairmen, skeptics. You were warned at the door. Refusal was not a recognized concept. He slept at the head of the bed, on the pillow, touching somebody, every night of his life. He needed the contact. Nobody minded.
I got here a few months after him. We had a rough start — two young cats, one house — and then we had nine years. He was the lover; I was the hunter. He chased flies and lost. I handled the actual intruders. Between the two of us, the house ran correctly.
He was gray all over except one white toe on his left foot. One. Like the factory signed him before shipping.
HIS GREATEST HEISTS
The Corn Cob
Stolen off a dinner plate at speed. He growled at all appeals. The cob was not recovered.
The Pizza
Whole slices, taken with commitment. He was a big eater with zero shame — every food was his favorite food.
The Doors
He solved flat door handles — one paw pulls down, the other pushes. Round knobs held the line. The house upgraded nothing and accepted its fate.
The Dog
Used the door skill to visit the neighbor's dog unsupervised. An unauthorized friendship, conducted through infrastructure.
The Harness
Presented with a harness, he went fully limp on the ground and made a small raspy moo of civil disobedience. The harness era ended shortly after.
THE PHOTOS THAT EXIST
For years there were almost no pictures of Benjamin. Phones were worse then, and he was usually too close to the camera — on the lap, on the pillow, on you. Then the family album from the first house turned up: the pillowcase era, the blue kitten eyes, the two of us at the sliding door. He'd have called it overdue.
THE ALBUM, RECOVERED
The last two: Benjamin and Max at the sliding door of the first house, running surveillance together. The board of directors, on duty.
THE FIRST LEGEND.
“Wherever legends go, the first one there saves a spot for the second.”
Benjamin · The First Cat of the 305 · 2009 – 2018