I never thought I would be a cat person. I always liked dogs better. They are loyal, friendly, and obedient. Cats are aloof, arrogant, and independent. But when I saw that little ball of fur at the animal shelter, I couldn’t resist. He was the runt of the litter, with a black patch over one eye and a long, straight tail. He looked at me with a curious expression, as if he were wondering what I was doing there.
I asked the shelter worker what his name was. She said he didn’t have one. He was just a stray that they found on the street. She said he was very shy and timid and that he needed a good home. I felt a pang of sympathy for him. I knew what it was like to be alone and unwanted. I had no friends or relatives, and I lived in a house by myself. I was retired and worked part-time as a freelance writer, which meant I rarely left my home or interacted with anyone. I decided to adopt him. I filled out the paperwork, paid the fee, and took him home.
I named him Patch after his black patch. He was very quiet and scared at first. He hid under the sofa and refused to come out. I tried to coax him with some food and toys, but he ignored me. I wondered if I had made a mistake. Maybe he didn’t like me. Possibly, he would never warm up to me. Perhaps I should have gotten a dog instead.
But after a few days, he started to come out of his shell. He explored the house, sniffed everything, and played with his toys. He followed me around, watching me work on my computer or read a book. He slept on my lap, purring softly. He rubbed his head against my face, asking for a scratch. He became my best friend. He was the only living thing that cared about me, and I cared about him.
We had a routine. Every morning, I would feed him, then work on my writing. Every afternoon, I would take a break and play with him. Every evening, I would watch some TV and cuddle with him. Every night, I would go to bed, and he would sleep next to me. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. He made me happy.
One day, I woke up feeling sick. I had a fever, a headache, and a sore throat. I thought it was just a cold, so I took some medicine and went back to bed. Patch was worried about me. He stayed by my side, licking my face and nuzzling my neck. He tried to comfort me. I appreciated his concern, but I wished he would leave me alone. I was too sick to play with him or feed him. I hoped he would find some food in the kitchen.
The next day, I felt worse. I couldn’t get up or move. I was in pain and delirious. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Maybe it was the flu or something worse. I wished I had someone to call, someone to help me. But I had no one. No one except Patch. He was still there, still loyal, still loving. He didn’t leave me, even though I couldn’t take care of him. He was the best cat in the world.
The next day, I died.
I don’t know how long it took for someone to find me. Possibly a week, perhaps a month. I had no visitors, no mail, and no phone calls. No one noticed I was gone. No one cared. No one except Patch. He was still there, still loyal, still loving. He didn’t leave me, even though I was dead. He was the best cat in the world.
But he was also hungry. He had no food, no water, and no way to survive. He had to eat something. He had to eat me.
He started with my fingers, then my toes, then my ears, then my nose. He ate me bit by bit, until there was nothing left but bones. He ate me because he loved me. He ate me because I was his best friend. He ate me because I was his.
He was the best cat in the world.
