Sentinel

This story is dedicated to all those who have lost a special creature in their lives. May they continue to fill our hearts with the purest of love.

Timmy, also known as Timbits, Tim-Tim, or Timbutts the Terrible, was by all accounts maddeningly annoying. He was found alone as a kitten in a public garden, claws deep into a garden gnome. From the moment we brought him home, he climbed, scratched, and destroyed anything he could get his little paws on, especially us; attacks at night were not uncommon. I had to wear oven mitts on my feet to keep my toes safe, and God forbid he get under the covers within reach of our nipples. Oh, and we couldn’t even think about having nice things. Small decorations? In pieces on the floor. Toothbrushes? Knocked into the toilet. And a Christmas tree? Forget about it. Despite using almost an entire spray bottle of water to deter Timbutts the Terrible, the tree eventually came crashing down as our cat leapt fearlessly into the plastic conifer from 6 feet away.

Like all cats, Timmy had his quirks, but some were stranger than others. You know when cats do that thing where they suddenly whip their heads up towards the door—ears pointed and pupils dilated—and just stare? Well, Timmy would do that every night from the edge of our bed, unmoving, for hours. He would also disappear from time to time, which was strange for an indoor cat. “He’s gone to Narnia,” my wife would say. When he’d come back, he was always so dirty, covered in all kinds of dust, soot, or a mystery black goop. No matter how hard I looked, I could never figure out where he’d go.

But in between the masochism, pestering, and disappearing acts, Timmy would give us the unconditional love and cuddles we all so desperately seek from a pet. For 10 years we tolerated his appalling behaviour, because above it all there was love. He would occasionally make biscuits on my chest and lie down with half his butt in my face blocking the TV. He followed me everywhere, always curious. And he seemed to be especially fond of my son, staying close to him after we brought him home from the hospital, tolerating the fur pulling and prodding. We were afraid Timmy might scratch him, but he never did. He stayed right by Isaac’s side every night, keeping watch at the door.

One day, I found Timmy on the floor, gasping for breath. Lymphoma, the vet had said. We did everything we could, but the cancer hit fast and hard. I had to make the decision all pet owners know they’ll eventually have to make; it never makes it any easier. He slipped away as I held him in my arms. Since then, it’s been like a part of me has been lost. That is, until now.

Because despite being dead, Timmy is sitting here in front of me, the jade green glow of his eyes accentuated by his void black fur.

“What in the name of…”

“Try not to freak out, you’ll wake the baby,” he said. His voice sounded mature, like old leather.

“…okay…” was all I could muster.

“Right, well, I don’t have a lot of time. I’ve got enough, but not a lot,” Timmy said. I nodded.

“Have you noticed anything strange lately?” he asked. I chuckled nervously.

“Well, I’m either actually talking to my dead cat, or I’m clinically insane, so there’s that.”

“No, I mean around the house, especially around Isaac. Anything unusual?” The image of my son laughing and stretching his arms out at nothing flashed through my mind, as well as the instances of him staring straight into the baby monitor for minutes on end, his eyes glowing in a ghostly hue. Suddenly the fact that I was talking to my dead cat did not feel so strange at all.

“…Yes, actually.”

“Tell me.” His tone squeezed a knot in my chest. I told him what I had seen, which then triggered more abnormalities that I had noticed, such as the lights dimming by themselves and shadows without shapes to cast them. Timmy blinked, his head cocked slightly, like he was doing mental arithmetic.

“Come with me.” Timmy took me to the laundry room and instructed that I get on all fours and look underneath the washing machine, into a space so minuscule that the whole side of my face was pressed against the cold bathroom floor.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“I don’t see anything,” I replied.

“Keep looking.” So I did, squinting. Then, a faint light, like the most distant star.

“Oh, uh, a small dot of light. What is that?” I asked.

“What colour?”

“Orange-ish.”

Timmy sighed and whispered something like a curse.

“Do you know what that is?” I asked him. It took him a moment to answer.

“I do. Come and sit with me again. I do not have much time left.”

Timmy took me to the living room once more, jumping back up on the coffee table in front of me. He told me everything: what lies beyond the light, what they eat, and what they fear. He told me about those long nights keeping watch as we slept, as our sentinel, as Isaac’s protector. He told me of their world, its filth and its stench. Finally, he told me protecting my family would be hard. A weight pulled down on me like soaking wet clothes.

“I…don’t know if I can,” I said. Timmy smiled, like cats sometimes do, in their own way.

“I know you. You can.” He said softly.

“Timmy…your fur…” Timmy didn’t look down as his fur slowly changed from black to a pale grey.

“It’s almost time,” he said.

There was so much I wanted to ask him. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Timmy hopped from the table to me and sat on my lap.

Lifting his grey paw he said, “You’ll need this.” I hesitated for a moment before letting his paw rest in my palm. A pale blue light emanated from underneath his paw and I watched it sink silently into my skin and go up my arm.

“I don’t feel anything,” I said.

“You will.” he said.

A tear flowed down my cheek. He was completely grey-white now, and his tail began to disappear into nothing.

“Before I go…can you hold me, one last time?” he asked.

I picked Timmy up and he let himself be cradled, purring, as he always had. Slowly his purring got quieter and quieter, until it was gone.