A Eulogy for Odin

I don't know when exactly there will be funeral for Odin, but I know it will be fairly soon, and I have decided to write a eulogy for him. A eulogy for my feline friend, the cat that I loved so much. I am still shaken by his death and I was not sure if I should write it now, but I think I need to find some closure to finally stop grieving and I also strongly believe he needs a proper homage. So people might say he was just a cat, but I never ever thought there was such a cat that was "just" a cat. Cats are unique, cats are superior creatures, cats are wonderful and Odin was the most feline cat I have ever met.

So where do I start? I first met him when I was coming home with a bag full of fish and chips and I already and quickly bonded with him. There was his rough demeanor, the blind left eye, his numerous scars and fight marks, but also a natural way Odin had to attract compassion and love. He was a moggy street cat through and through, always coming out of his bush full of twigs, which he wore with feline elegance. In spite of his bad eye, he proved himself to be a capable hunter. I still remember that day when he went off his bush with a mouse in his mouth, the ironic look he gave me with his eyes, his expression, that seemed to say: "No need to be scared you wuss, I already killed it. I can have it all if you don't like it."  And after the kill and his feast, he was ever the sweet, loving cat needing attention.

Odin could be a bit of a joker, he certainly knew, in any cases, that humans were suckers and that he could manipulate them to do his bidding. I rarely refused him anything, and when I did it was never for long. But he was not just any cat. He came to this place because he wanted exclusivity. His owners said he was their favorite cat, but Odin wanted exclusivity. Exclusivity of love, attention, care. He was not faithful himself, but expected faithfulness from the primates that served him. There was something aristocratic about him, no wonder I gave him the name Odin. Of course he had many names, but Odin fitted him the most: he was a wanderer, someone who in spite of his rough external appearance never lost his feline grace and elegance. And his looks had improved too: lots of TLC, proper feeding (and more!) made him gain weight and made his fur silkier. Always silent, except when he was asking for something, then he could meow relentlessly until you had given in. A curious cat, eager to explore the world. Too eager maybe, that ended up being his undoing, in a night too dark for his own good, him who was at night a silent, moving, silky shadow. Always the wanderer. But also eager to lie next to you and do nothing else than nap at your side and receive strokes and cuddles, or kisses even, all the time looking at you with satisfied eyes. He was a feline who wanted time with hominids on his own terms. He was cremated this week. With his ashes, a bit of his fur, came a word, a sort of poema bit nauseating for the unbeliever I am, who mentioned a rainbow bridge when loved pets end up, until you join them. It reminded me of Bifrost. However nauseating, the poem was somewhat fitting. But in any case, godly or not, Odin was a wonderful cat.