BAXTER_MEMORIAL

    I know that many of you never met our cat named Baxter, but you may have heard Kent or I speak of him. Last Friday
night, he didn’t show up at the back door for his dinner and night's sleep on the futon. He’d been gone for a few days
once before and even trapped once in our shed over a weekend, so we figured he’d eventually show up. By Sunday,
when he still hadn’t returned, we posted “missing cat” flyers in the neighborhood. We started to worry. On Monday
morning, we got a call from the vet that TexDOT had retrieved Baxter’s body early Friday afternoon from the access
road near our house. Luckily, he was still wearing his cat collar and tags, so he could be identified. He was one-and-a-
half years old.

We found Baxter one June night outside the entrance of a little theater in Houston, where we had just seen a play. He
was motionless under the streetlight, where someone had obviously placed him in the hopes that he’d be given a new
home. He was so tiny he fit in the palm of my hand. As it turns out, he was sick with a terrible flea infestation, so
covered with them that his face was mottled and his fur tinted a brownish color. We brought him back to Austin, where
the first order of business was a flea bath. Almost instantly, he was a new kitten, lively and inquisitive. We named him
"Baxter" after Anne Baxter, who played Eve Harrington in the 1950 movie, “All About Eve”. Why that name? In the film’
s first scene, the character of Eve is seen waiting outside the stage door of a Broadway theater.   Leave it to a couple
of guys who love movies to come up with something like that.

    Pretty quickly, we fell in love with this odd, beautiful little cat. His coloring was like a Siberian husky, and his exotic
almond eyes looked as they were lined with eyeliner. He was fascinated by the running water in the shower and
bathtub; he even slept in the bathroom sink on occasion. He never really walked anywhere, but scurried from place to
place. I rarely heard him “meow” like most cats; rather, he squeaked or didn’t utter a sound. He’s the only cat that I’ve
known who would swallow a pill without a fight. And he was possibly the worst feline hunter ever; he’d spring at a bird
from 20 feet away. Most of all, he was at once both very independent and very loving. Baxter was a sweet blessing for
both of us, rounding out our household with his adolescent energy and quirky behavior.

    While the way in which Baxter died really doesn’t surprise either of us very much, given his adventurous and
impetuous nature, we’re still in shock that he’s actually gone. We’ll never know why he decided to roam so far from
home to a place fraught with so much danger. I expect it will be a long time before our household stops feeling empty
without him. We affectionately teased Baxter with a variety of nicknames--"Possum", "Young Buck", a German slang
word my mother used when I was a kid that I couldn't even begin to spell here--but the nickname we used the most was
“Little Boy” because he was the youngest member of our family. It was also a name perfectly suited for his masculine
energy and youthful disposition. I often wondered whether we’d still call him that name, once he matured into
adulthood.   Now, I’m certain that he’ll always be “Little Boy” to the both of us.