“I found a surprise,” Tom grinned. Tom’s my nephew, and for the past year, a general contractor we charged with transforming a rural acreage in rough condition into our dream Eden. I followed him to a corner in our newly built shed he completed. It’s my man cave and also the staging area for the new house Tom is almost finished building for my wife, Judy, and myself. Looking over a newly fabricated barrier, I saw the smallest kitty ever with blue eyes blinking back at me. I heard a barely audible and raspy squeak “aaaah” instead of a meow.

I have not considered myself a “cat person” or a “dog person” or any kind of pet person for most of my life, in fact, for sixty-years. While respectful of others who possess enduring relationships with just about everything in the animal kingdom, my life has been pet-less by choice. Admittedly, I’ve been secretly arrogant about my chosen status. I have had no veterinary bills, pet food expense or concerns about taking care of critters while on extended travel. “Sparky,” the name Judy gave this kitty, changed all of that. I cannot explain this transformation. I can only feel it.

I am certain that Judy played a major role. After more than forty years since taking her to our respective high school proms, I took my high school sweetheart as my wife. Judy is a kindly kitty-person from the get go. Two “rescue cats” were among my wedding presents to her, Milo and Sophie. Not one but two fur-shedding meowing critters in my heretofore animal-free household had to be proof positive of my love for my new bride. The transition (animals in the house) has not been easy for me.

“He going to have big feet,” Tommy pointed out on this featherweight grey and white marbled fuzz ball as he picked up Sparky and handed him to me. Judy and I held Tom as a newborn more than forty years ago. We both recall how tiny he was. He now is a full-grown construction guy with big guns (biceps) and a huge toolbox with an even bigger vision, but he’s still Tommy to us.

I am pretty good with guessing weight having recently made a living by shipping products worldwide. I’d say Sparky weighed between 7 to 10 ounces (198 to 283 grams). Sparky chowed down in the shed and weighed close to 1.5 pounds five weeks later. We buried him between two newly planted pine trees yesterday. But he was still 1.5 pounds underweight for his age according to the veterinarian.

Sparky was the construction crew’s kitty, Tommy’s kitty and our kitty for five weeks. I could never have predicted how we were all infused with love for this spunky kitten dumped at our property out in the country. Our dear friend, Phil, the previous owner of the acreage, warned us. He had over 37 kitties dumped over the twenty years he lived on it. He had them all fed, “fixed” and sheltered. I think cats have erected a statue in honor of Phil in kitty heaven.

Sparky sat on my shoulder every night after Tommy and the construction crews would leave and we’d survey the day’s progress together. I didn’t know his raspy squeaky “aaaah” and the extra rattle in his purr signaled pneumonia. I did know I liked him burrowing into my beard. I fancied Sparky as my own personal shoulder-mounted one-sided ear muff and coaxed him to change-out ears in the autumn coolness. He somehow stayed perched as I would sweep the shed and do chores. I told him he is hereby commissioned as our shed mouser, as soon as he got bigger than a mouse. I believe Sparky accepted his appointment when he began leaping off my shoulder to attack a cricket or Boxelder bug within range.

I don’t understand how Sparky broke all stereotypes with different construction guys on site. There was Jerome, one of our siding installers, a huge black man you’d think was a lineman for a NFL team, who would break out in smile bigger than his girth when Sparky climbed up to his shoulder and do his ear muff thing. There was Alex, another siding installer, Hispanic, who would chuckle at the antics of el gato. And there was Tommy, we called Sparky’s “daddy,” who cleaned Sparky’s litterbox, fed and watered him, and fashioned a comfy heated kitty box in the shed.

The change in Sparky was clear the moment I arrived at the shed yesterday morning. He was sitting on top of his box shivering next to the small incandescent light Tommy kept on to warm him. His bright blue eyes were clouded. There was a rattle in his breathing. Tommy followed me into the shed and we agreed Sparky didn’t look good and wondered if he ingested something bad. We scoured the shed for anything that could cause Sparky to look so bad and we found nothing.

Tom had to get to work. We had a geothermal crew on site filling in a trench. We had a cement crew on site putting in a pad in front of our newly built house and attached garage. And Tom was working with his sidekick, Maurisemo, inside the house.

I kept watch on Sparky throughout the morning while doing chores inside the shed. He grew steadily worse. Tommy checked in at noon time. He had been around animals all his life. He said Sparky wasn’t going to make it. I sent a text to Judy who was at work. She clocked-out and went to our “farm” immediately to ferry Sparky to our local veterinarian. The vet sadly informed her that upon examination Sparky had multiple issues besides being underweight by half the size and dehydrated: feline leukemia, worms, and pneumonia. He knew, as Tommy knew, Sparky wasn’t going to make it. We chose to have the vet put him down. I can make no sense at our intense sadness over the loss of this tiny creature. My head thinks the depths of our grief are linked to all the loss we’ve experienced over a lifetime of losses, like any other persons of our age. My heart just hurts.

Yet, I am grateful. I am grateful that neither of us (Judy and I) nor Tommy are sad-sacks by nature. I am grateful that I can now experience a closer solidarity and a true empathy with friends who grieve over the loss of any pet. And I am grateful for a short-lived featherweight fuzz ball named “Sparky” who changed my life.