Last Updated on May 23, 2026 by admin
Memorial Day weekend is full of the things that get put away.
The flag. The dress uniform. The deployment patches in the bottom drawer.
The cat does not go in the drawer.
There are three names worth keeping, today.
Boots was an orange tabby. He came home in 1991, in a duffel bag, with a young Army sergeant from Riyadh. He lived in a kitchen in Fayetteville, North Carolina, until 2005. Fourteen years. He outlived the marriage. He outlived the dog. He did not outlive the dress uniform — the uniform got put away first, in a box in the closet, in 1994.
Rocket was a black-and-white tuxedo. He came home in 2007, in a footlocker, with a Navy hospital corpsman from Anbar. He lived in a kitchen in Norfolk, Virginia, until 2021. Fourteen years. He outlived the second deployment. He outlived two relocations. He outlived the corpsman’s father.
Magpie was a small calico with a notched right ear. She came home in 2014, in a cargo crate, with a Marine sergeant from Helmand. She lives, still, in a kitchen in Twentynine Palms, California. She is twelve. She is on the kitchen radiator at this exact hour, on the morning of Memorial Day weekend.
The Marine sergeant is forty-one. She has been out of the service for eight years. The uniform is in the closet. The cat is in the kitchen.
This is the way it goes.
The wars end. The deployments end. The uniforms go in the closet.
The cat does not go in the closet.
The cat watches the kitchen.