Bibbs 2.0

by Michael Davidson

I had a cat when I was little.

We were tight, Bibbs and I, the stuff ABC after-school specials were made of. Being an only child, he was like a brother to me—albeit a brother that constantly pooped in the geraniums.

But who doesn't have a family member that's done that?

For hours on end, we would play kitty hide-and-seek—a game which required me to withhold food from Bibbs until he was hungry enough to search me out whilst I shook the can of Pounce in a tantalizing manner. Good times.

We grew up together—went through the angst-filled years of adolescence as a pair. We even struggled with the same painful demons. I'll never forget the tearful family intervention upon finding an ounce of Peruvian catnip stuffed under his favorite scratching post.

To this day, I can envision 'geriatric' Bibbs, hobbling to the doorway of our home to see me off to the military—paw raised in a furry salute. Excuse me a moment while I tremble with emotion. Is it misty in here? You bet.

The military was like was a rebirth for me. Structure and order were given to a life that was until then—aimless. It's not surprising that I missed the warning signs in my calls home to Dad. But I do remember the final call.

"Hey Dad, how are things back home?" I asked.

"Fine, fine ... all is well here." He replied.

"How's Bibbs doing? Put him on the phone, will ya? I want to tell him about all the rodents here in the barracks, he'll love it."

"Umm ... Bibbs isn't feeling well. There's been an accident with the oriental rug, a bit of pee if you must know. He's heavily sedated right now."

"Sedated?" I queried.

"Well not so much sedated as dead. Yes, dead would be a way of putting it. He's dead, so to speak."

"Umm, ok. Just tell him I'll call lat ... er, he's what??? Dead? He's dead, you say? What the hell?"

My various platoon mates were looking at me a bit oddly. Luckily my drill sergeant wasn't around; he wasn't a fan of emotional outbursts.

"Michael, Bibbs was a very old cat. It was his time—there was nothing I could do about it," my father placidly stated.

"H-h-how did he die?"

"He died peacefully, in his sleep."

"In his sleep? Naturally?" A wave of relief washed over me; at least this sounded dignified.

"Well, more of a chemical-induced sleep, to be precise. It was very lovely. The doctor said he didn't feel a thing once the kitty gas mask was placed on his snout. Getting it on was a struggle, boy, let me tell you ... he was a fighter, that Bibbs. I still have the scratch marks."

"Chemical-induced? You let Dr. Kevorkian euthanize my cat? With a gas mask?"

I don't remember much more. I woke up in the infirmary—apparently I had blacked out from the stress. The nurse mentioned that I had been mumbling the words to the Meow Mix commercial while I slept—Bibbs' favorite song.

There's a point to this post, and as soon as I remember what it is, I'll get to it.

Ah yes. The point is I loved that cat. To this day, I've never had another animal be his equal. When perusing the local paper today I came upon an article about a man who had his deceased cat cloned, for the reasonable price of $50,000 USD.

Fifty thousand dollars? A mere pittance to be reunited with the cat of all cats, a veritable Prince of Purr-sia, if you will. The only problem is we've long since moved from my childhood home where he was buried. Nonetheless, I will let nothing get in my way of securing some choice Bibbs DNA for the replica process. Bibbs 2.0—coming to a litter box near you.

Tonight, I dig for you, old friend. Let old bones be free!

Copyright © Michael Davidson 2005