January 15, 2017: My son was thirteen when Bullseye found him on the porch. It was a cold, fall day, and Justin had locked himself out of the house. Skinny and skittish, Bullseye sidled up to my boy, as he sat waiting for me to come home. “We’ll get him fed,” I said, “but he’s not our cat.” As the days got colder, I softened. “We’ll let him come in from the cold,” I said, “but he’s not our cat.” Then, “We’ll take him to the vet. Get him checked out. Give him his shots.” And softly, “But, he’s not our cat.” Finally, “This is Bullseye. He is our cat.”
Bullseye never really warmed up to anyone but my son. He would stiff-arm anyone that tried to hold him. He’d brush up against you, and then quickly dart away. But Justin could hug him and kiss the top of his head. He could scratch his ears and stroke his soft fur. He never left his side.
There were many years in between then and now, when Justin was not entirely lovable. As his mom, I loved him fiercely, while Bullseye loved him gently. At the times where he needed that the most.
Bullseye died yesterday, nestled in the crook of his boy’s arm. I stood holding Justin, his body quaking with grief, and the years melted away. So many memories! Bullseye stood sentinel over Justin through twenty years of angst and laughter, hardship and growth. When Justin was in a car accident at nineteen, he was bed-bound for six months. But he was not alone. He was never alone.
Justin spent a great deal of time over the last year nursing his old partner. He loved him well. But it was time to go, and it was a peaceful journey over that rainbow bridge. Farewell, dear Bullseye. Thanks for looking after my boy.