Found my friend today, though I can't exactly say he was lost. That's a description more accurately applied to me, thirty-nine years old and still unsure what I want to do when I 'grow-up'. Nor can I say he's my best friend - I'm still human enough to value the occasional response when I speak and Todd was never a strong conversationalist. His voice was high and kind of 'feminine' - well, truth be told so is mine - but where I can easily be drawn-in to just about any discussion on philosophy or modern technology, eager to flex my brain with the "in-your-face" subtlety of a 'roid' cycling Swedish body builder, Todd was possessed of a more quiet intelligence.

Often I'd catch him laughing at me as I lectured others, mostly my teenage girls, on Evolutional principles of social psychology or the relative merits of contemporary theories on Artificial Intelligence. Mid-conceptual-stride I'd catch his gaze from across the room, mocking, eyes half-lidded as if to say, "Chandler"-like, "Dude, could you BE... more totally boring?"

The effect usually made me see myself through his eyes - humbling, arrogantly indifferent to the complexities I wove. At the very least, it was enough for me to suddenly take notice that my daughters usually shared his same insufferably bored expression.

From time to time we'd catch a football game on TV together, but you could tell he wasn't really into it. He was only mildly interested in soft-porn, documentaries put him to sleep, and he cared absolutely nothing whatsoever for the Internet.

There was one thing Todd said to me I'll never forget, though.

"Meeow."

Come to think of it, this might have been the only thing he ever actually said aloud. Funny, now that I think about it. There seems to be so much more.

He came to me stuffed in a purse, in April of my year of "chaos", 1986. A single fifteen month stretch in which I flirted with my own lunacy, found a California girl and married her, sealed my membership to insanity by producing a child, drinking the equivalent of a Tennesee distillary, losing the child for the next fifteen years and finally, mercifully, meeting and falling in-love with the woman who was to become my true life-partner.

She was a nurse then - my Susan, now. I was laid up in her bed sporting a hangover migraine headache which would have made an elephant pass out. At lunch time, she showed up gently carrying a medium sized handbag. Its only contents were a shot of Demoral for my pain and an adorable, mewling orange-tabby kitten.

In the months to follow, we discovered a wild-streak in our new little house guest. Any object with the temerity to protrude from an otherwise smooth covered sheet was fair game in Todd's daily 5:00 AM hunt. More than once, the little guy would trap his prey in the pre-dawn, sinking powerful incisors and claws through the sheets, into the flesh of an unfortunate human toe or sleepily shifting limb. The unconscious, often shocked response was sometimes an experiment in the flight and wall-bounce capacity of tiny green-eyed kitties.

On or about the seventh of his rumored nine-lives, Todd matured into his adolescence and we set about building the mature friendship it would become, though he was never to lose that small mischievous gleam in his eyes. Niether, says my wife, have I for that matter.

I guess he and I have that in common. Its part of our implicit knowledge about the other - a very deep "understanding" which has now spanned nearly half of my entire life. So deep, in fact, that it sometimes excludes even Susan, who shrugs it off as undoubtedly a "male-thing".

Todd and I were all about understanding and mutual respect. He did his part. I was the one who kept changing the rules, but he remained good-natured, if slightly annoyed and he forgave my humanity. He was never one to suffer too much contact, with one exception. I could pick him up with his head over my shoulder, much like one burps a baby. In that position, even without the always welcome chin or head scratch, his purring motor would kick into high gear and he'd stay there for as long as I would have him up there, often hours at a time in the beginning.

In those strapped early days, his first year and half in San Diego, CA, he resigned himself to the role of apartment kitty. Susan was finishing her nursing degree. I waited tables at night and painted during the regular business hours. The rich smells of oils and turpentine will always bring an association of those dirt poor, deliriously happy days with him and Susan and my seven year old step-son, Jesse, who came to his own independent understanding with Todd. I took notice long enough to satisfy myself that their bargain wouldn't include singed orange hair or anal firecrackers, then I left them on their own.

Jesse and Todd grew up together. They were different species, but the same sense of compassionate honor and self reliance marked them as brothers. In all the years, I think I recall only once when I accidently walked in on Todd, firecracker clawed in his paw and uncomfortably close to a sleeping Jesse's "Super-hero" under-briefs. I gave the teenage cat an icy stare while he laid down and unaffectedly licked his fur. The little imp even had the presence of mind to look startled for a second, as if he'd just noticed me standing there.

"WHAT!?" His gaze shouted back, challengingly. "Can't a guy bathe?" He then went back to work on his fur with a vengeance and in a stroke of pure "bull-shit" brilliance, suddenly pretended to be surprised at the strange appearance of the colorful little incendiary cylinder lying between him and my son's little butt-cheek. He even gave it a tentative little swipe with his paw as if to say, "What's this? New cat toy?".

Todd trusted me from the very beginning, though I almost lost it before and during the move back east. Just when he'd grown comfortable with the three human's with whom he shared his modest little apartment, a fourth moved in. A loud, tiny miniature human who responded to his chin scratching entreaties by grabbing and tugging palmfuls of his soft orange hair. That was also about the time that I'd taken him in to be neutered, probably a month too soon in a cat's ideal development cycle. I've since humorously thought it may have contributed to his decidedly un-masculine meeow. I'd like to think he's eventually forgiven me. Sometimes, I imagine he gives me almost a thankful look as I struggle through the trials of five children now. I'll stare back at him while I blankly listen to the latest teenage drama or referee another sibling argument. He knows what I'm thinking in those moments and we share an inner chuckle. "If only I would have had the wisdom to join you under the neutering-knife, ole' boy!".

We left California in the high heat of summer, just six weeks after the birth of mine and Susan's first child. Jesse's biological father agreed to fly him, after a visit, to our new home in Atlanta, GA, so Susan and I packed two cars with all the belongings a cat and three and a half humans owned and headed into a blistering 116 degree desert. One vehicle was air conditioned. One was not.

I'm unsure if Todd will ever fully comprehend why he always ended up with the short end of the stick. I've cherished that graciousness, his casual acceptance of himself as the lesser family member. In that journey through hell itself, he sat bravely by my side panting - yes, cats pant like any dog under conditions of extreme heat or exhaustion. He was soaked in sweat and matted fur. Never once did he mention the unfairness. He cooly refrained from justifiable gripes like, "Can you tell me why the new 'pet' get's the air conditioned environment? Exactly what's so special about her? At least I have the good manners to deficate in the provided box of synthetic sand! And, uh... Not to bring up a sore subject, but, if this heat is to kill one of us, why not her? She's young enough that you can't be overly attached to her yet, and its not like she couldn't quickly be replaced by your..., (and here I imagine his cat voice soaked in sarcasm) 'perfectly VIABLE set of BALLS'!".

No, Todd learned his place very early in his life. He loved us but was set apart from us and he relished the difference. He was a cat - a fact which fills him and me with immeasurable pride.

Here in Atlanta, Todd was introduced to the outdoors. He was born to this life and I was finally able to give it to him - trees, grass, and tall weeds to hide his flaming coloration from unsuspecting field mice. His powerful instinct was to hunt but without a decent teacher it took him the better part of four years before he brought home anything more respectable than a previously chewed squirrel.

He got in his share of territorial disputes over the years, but probably lost a few more than he won. I imagine it must have been tough going for him at times, perhaps a bunch of neighborhood feline "boyz" teasing him mercilessly... Upon seeing him approach, they'd all give a falsetto "Meeow". doing the kitty equivalent of a Mike Tyson impression.

His luxuriously thick coat gave his slender build an appearance of impressive size which he used to full advantage. This is something else we share in-common - I've spent most of my life doing the same with big words.

As the years wore on, he followed us from one house to the next with an astonishing adaptability. His acceptance of new alien environments - and new, even more alien little humans - was immediate. Each time we made a move, I worried about how he'd fare - Could he establish his territory or make his habits known to neighboring cars unused to his presence. Would a particularly stupid or obnoxious canine take exception to his devastatingly cool arrogance?

After each move, my wife and I would inevitably spend a first, official day doing yard work around our new home. Todd would shadow us with that uncanny ability he had to make it seem like WE were following him around. He never shirked in his solemn responsibility to protect us from particularly ferocious field-mice.

I remember several such times where Susan or I voiced our satisfaction with how quickly and well Todd had seemed to adapt to the new address. On those occasions he would invariably stare back at us with an unmistakable thought, "Of course I'm comfortable here you retards. My home is simply where the two of you choose to live. Geography doesn't matter. We're family, right?"

"Geeze... Big frontal lobes and opposable thumbs, huh? How difficult a concept is it to understand?"

The years passed. My family went through one upheaval after another - new careers and homes, new babies, even new animals - but he and I never lost touch with the amazing bond we shared, our unspoken communication rippling with sarcasm, or his place on my shoulder during the occasional colorful sunset.

Statistically, outside cats with an unusually high instinct to roam, do not normally live beyond twelve or thirteen years, especially ones who spend their first couple of years entirely indoors, but I think Todd knew his own limitations. He damn sure knew mine.

For the first half of his life, he would take off on one of his mysterious adventures and stay gone only for a few hours, a day at the most. But past his middle-age, his hours began to turn into days, then as long as a week of total absence. I worried at first, but never for long. His lengthening journeys seemed to have a rhythm designed for my benefit - to break me in slowly to the idea of his extended absences. My imagination calls up such grand adventures in those times unknown to me or anyone, exotic watering holes at the edge of civilization, romantic interludes, undercover operations for a covert kitty intelligence agency. How cool would it be one day to find a hidden little cache of passports, each with his orange whiskered face and a different name, "Toby, Tyler, Theodore."...

So when Todd reached twelve years, I took to calling him "Ole' man" and thanking the Creator for letting him be such a long, special part of my life. I reminded myself that despite the indignities my humanity sometimes fostered upon him, he'd led a great cat-life. I suppose I did this to steel myself against the likelihood that he would soon go off on an adventure and I'd simply never hear from him again. He was healthy, he had never gone hungry and he had demonstrated, from day-one, the supreme confidence and contentment of an animal who knew who he was - more than that, he knew he was loved. If only all humans could be born into such fortune.

But the "Ole' man" was made of much sturdier stuff than my silly parental fears allowed. Over the next four and a half years, the already dizzying demands on my time became exponentially more complex, to the point where the chaotic tides which sway me, each and every day can now be described as downright silly in their confusing intensity. Susan and I had two more babies, and I finally got back the one I'd lost for fifteen years. Todd was always around for important events, like holidays or the first time we'd bring home a new baby. He ritually greeted each addition to his household. He would move forward slowly, taking their scent, look back at me, then move on to the business of being Todd, his walk clearly voicing his thoughts to me, "Dude, you are such an ignoramus! Oh, I'll love 'em, cause you made 'em, partner, but might I remind you, its just a little 'snip'. You wouldn't feel a thing!".

Funny thing was, I did finally consent to the neutering table just last year. Arriving home, I had to walk gingerly up the stairs. Todd was sitting on the top step looking down at me. I've never been more convinced I actually saw a smile on his face. "About damn time, ya' meathead!", he seemed to say.

Each year that passed has been our gift to one another. He and I never required anything else. We were simply a fact of each other's existence - joyous in and of itself.

This summer my first baby, byproduct of my insanity 19 years ago and only just older than Todd, graduated High School. Jesse has become a fine man of twenty-three. The six-week old baby for whom Todd graciously suffered a cross country inferno is now driving cars, and possessed of the same awesome sense of self reliance and independence that marks both Todd and Jesse.

The entire family has been on vacation twice already this summer. Todd and I quit feeling the need to say goodbye before such trips years ago, though he's always there waiting upon our return and this summer was no different. Both of us indulge in that mutual expression which seems to say, "Of course, I was fine - just a little... incomplete, without you, ole' friend."

Its rare now, that both of our schedules coincide for the cherished communion at sunset which was such a large part of our younger years, but we had such a meeting two weeks ago. My girls were both out on dates, the two youngest were shopping with Susan. I walked out alone onto the back porch, needing a break from the digital glare of my computer screen, which at thirty-nine, is already destroying my reading vision. Just as I sat, a flash of dull orange appeared in my peripheral sight from around the corner. Our eyes met, and I think both of our souls sighed very deeply. He walked slowly but purposefully over to me, jumped onto my lap and I lifted him the rest of the way to his familiar position over my shoulder. Besides his audible, comforting purr, neither of us made a sound. We simply watched the dwindling light and breathed the good breath of our forever companionship.

I can't really say when or if he left on one of his adventures this last time. I just remember my sixteen year old casually mention notice of his absence several days ago. Then this morning on her way out again with both the younger children, my wife mentioned it, and brought my attention to something else, as well - something 'unpleasant' which had been nagging at my subconscious for more than a day. As soon as the gears clicked within my mind, I think I knew, though as often as we'd played this exact scene - calling and worrying until we'd heard his unmistakable effeminate meeow off in the distance - we decided to follow through with our original business. As soon as Susan left with the kids, I threw on a pair of docksiders and went outside to have a look around for my old friend. The barely perceptible 'unpleasantness' gave me a general starting point for my search.

It took only two minutes.

He was lying in an area of our yard where tall weeds claim victory over my sometimes lazy lawn-mowing designs, along a thin path which he used regularly to travel back and forth to the creek which runs behind our house. Perhaps he was returning from yet another epic feline adventure. Perhaps he simply felt the need for a little quiet distance from a house full of his chaotic but lovable human family. I'll never know for certain. I only know that his eyes were closed, his body positioned as one who simply fell asleep, and will not ever wake.

Tears in my eyes, I ran inside and grabbed an old towel, not because he shouldn't have a newer one, but because that particular towel happened to be one of my oldest possessions - my family name embroidered in silver across a faded dark blue. It was a fitting shroud. Todd earned my family name as much as any of us humans, who sometimes take it for granted.

I buried my dear friend beneath a dogwood, on a slight incline with a perfect view of the setting sun. The pain of his loss is immense - the tears rich and plentiful. For eighteen years he lovingly walked with me, helping to define the boundaries of who I was, of the father I've been and of the man I am now. I wonder, is it odd that my cat has so significantly clarified my own humanity?

Not yet, but in days to come, I will walk out at sunset and take a seat beneath the dogwood. I have no doubt that somewhere in the fading light, in the moment of my greatest need, I'll feel his weight upon my shoulder and his motoring purr deep within my soul.

Goodbye, 'ole friend. Roam far and wide, but meet me upon the final sunset of my life.

Michael Mollick