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Death’s whistle is a melody not easily forgotten. Puss will never be able to scrub it from his memory, or the pacify sickness it leaves in his belly.
Even though Puss anticipated Death’s haunting return, he can’t help but freeze as the harmony tickles his ears in the air. What once would have sent him running now greets him with a funny feeling. Something like… nostalgia? No – nostalgia is joyful remembrance. This carried a shiver of melancholy, like…
Deja vu.
That whistle is somehow shrill in his mind, but delicate to his ears.
Death doesn’t need to fight to enter. The door is already unlocked: he is welcome.
The door creaks as it opens, squeaking against its unoiled hinges while a burly white figure gracefully dips his head to enter. The ends of Death’s cloak brush the pumpkin-coloured tiles as he comes to a stop, flicking back his hood so that his face is no longer obscured. His sigh comes out like a traveler blissfully reaching a pitstop on the long road.
Death gazes around the tiny room, breathing in through his snout with a satisfied flutter of his eyes.
“I do love the smell of fear – but you know what I enjoy even more, Gato?”
Puss studies the towering figure. He knows it shouldn’t surprise him, the way Death looks no different now than he did years before, but seeing the spitting image preserved before him is still jolting. People say Death comes in many faces, but that clearly is just not true. This is the same face that greeted him decades ago.
Death finally turns to face his body towards Puss in his bed, smiling faintly at the tabby.
Clearly waiting for his prompt, Puss fills the silence. “What do you love more, Lobo?”
The wolf’s smile seems to grow fonder at his recognition. “The man who walks with wisdom,” he says. “So, your life – did you live it well?”
Ah, there it is. He’s wasting no time.
Puss sighs, readjusting himself in bed. He’s laid back against a mountain of pillows – both Perrito and Kitty’s insistence. Though, they are nowhere to be found. Puss is alone in his room with the sunlight filtering through the open window, the steady and warm summer breeze gently twirling the lace curtains.
So, your life – did you live it well?
When once he would have imagined his challenges and victories as an adventurer, he no longer can muster those memories. Sure, they remain there, unforgotten. And while they are not blocked from shame or fear, Puss simply can’t recognize them the way he used to.
Something much sweeter has replaced its pedestal in his mind.
Instead, when Death inquires about his life, flashes of faces fill his mind.
So, your life – did you live it well?
He thinks of a green ogre and his donkey friend, settled happily somewhere in Far, Far Away. He thinks of his birth place, San Ricardo, and Mama Imelda. He thinks of his brother, lost to the hands of Death himself. He thinks of Timoteo, Gonzalo, and Perla. He thinks of Perrito and his stinky sock sweater.
And… he sees Kitty. The image of her face alone envelopes all the worry clamping around his heart, dissolving into a calming breeze that clears all the trepidation fogging his mind.
With full confidence, he is proud to tell Death, “Sí.”
Death’s gaze scatters around the room, to the picture frames and paintings. They coat the walls like the midday sun. "And where are your friends?"
Oh… yes. Puss chuckles. He supposes it is a little untraditional to be met in your final moments without your loved ones around.
"Ah, Kitty is the easy part. It’s Perrito that I can’t seem to get off me. I’m sure he’ll come barging in here in no time…” Puss trails off as he stares out the window, releasing another breath as he tries to gain control over the welling emotions in his chest.
It’s an odd thing, to know how he’s lost such a grip on that pattering thing in his ribcage since he was young. In a way, he’s grateful for it. He doesn’t believe he used his heart much in his past eight lives - he’s glad to know he used it in the one that mattered.
He’s proud to have shared it with the people he loved.
“Kitty and I, we've said our farewells. She has kept her distance since."
Death clicks his tongue. "What for?"
Death had seen many passings. The willing and the horrified, the takers and the fighters. Most animals (or people) like Kitty and Puss awaited his coming until the final breath. Tried to draw out their last moment as long as he would allow, as though to soak up something they might have missed before.
This time, Puss does not try to keep the sadness at bay. Sure, he doesn’t break down in front of Death, but the inside of his throat is tugging. It’s as though there’s a string from his heart to a bundle of nerves in his throat, which are quickly solidifying into a stone he finds difficult to speak past.
He… Oh…
Puss cleared his throat. "I do not believe I would leave so peaceful if I were reminded of what will be left behind.” Puss gazed at the picture frame on the wall. “If... she were before me."
He will miss her.
Death hums, looking at the picture that Puss is captured by. It’s a tacky recreation of their wanted poster – Perrito is settled in the middle, flanked on both sides by Kitty and Puss. This rendition, however, is in beautiful color, perfectly capturing the blue of Kitty’s irises.
It isn’t the scene that surprises Death. Puss isn’t that vain so as to not feel the physical ache of missing someone. Rather, it’s the path his eyes chose to take.
Beside the picture lies a cavalier’s hat, a belt with a sword, a small black cape, and small Corinthian boots.
Death lifts a curved blade from under his cloak, gesturing to the retired pile. “And your legend? You no longer care about it?”
“If I weren’t mistaken, I’d say you’re testing me.”
“Well, I only wish to know how the Puss before me compares to the Puss I met long ago. You seem to have already buried him.” Once, he would have considered that outfit to be the very embodiment of his name. His person.
“Choosing not to wear boots in bed is a far cry from retiring.”
Death smirks. “Tell me, then – is he the same? Or have you softened?”
"Oh, come now!” Puss cries, waving his hands. “We all know death only makes a legend more beloved. We all seek to hear the voices of the passed, do we not?" This makes Puss laugh, settling back into his pillow. "The world cradles the dead poet, mi amigo, all while silencing the living. We will push an ear to the grave to hear the whispers of those passed. This... This isn't the end for me.”
We yearn for a prophet. For wisdom and peace . We feel regret much harder than gratitude, when it comes to death.
“Lobo…” His eyes stay glued to the ceiling for a moment. “I think I understand you now."
"What do you understand about me, Gato?"
Puss' smile had the gentle quirk of acuity. Its slant was that of humble celebration, of fulfillment. It only sought the elderly and the tormented, grazing their face like a prize at the finish line.
Death could see the calamitous waves of a once-young mind hush to a tranquil flow.
"Death is life lived."
Death's brow bone perked, waiting for Puss to elaborate.
"Without death, I could not have life, you see?" He gestures to the air around him, like the room itself and the summer breeze drifting between them is enough of an explanation. In a sense, it is. The sunlight is warming the little house, there are mourning doves chirping outside, paintings of familiar faces and scenery covering the walls…
Puss picks at the sheets of his bed with a claw, avoiding Death’s red stare. “You were right, in the Cave of Lost Souls. I didn’t value any of my past lives. In fact, I played a part in ruining them. Filling them with- with greed and pride and lust.” He looks up, meeting his unwavering line of sight. “Because of you, I got to live the life I needed. My thanks… It is never enough.”
Like that, the weight off his chest is gone.
Instead of uttering a “you’re welcome” or gloating, Death merely puffs. It’s nothing but a gentle blow of air from his nose, like an acknowledgement. But, when a grin tugs its way across his snout, Puss knows he is willing to accept his gratitude.
"So, you no longer fear me?"
"Oh, who said I feared you?"
Puss’ laugh twines with the laughter of children running in a street nearby, whooping about a game of tag. Death does not laugh – but his serene smile remains at the joke.
“Life has treated you well,” he suddenly observes, gesturing to Puss.
He’s right. Besides the graying fur and the tender caution to the movement of his now-aching joints, age has been kind to Puss in Boots. He is not going by plague or sword, but rather… Meeting the natural end. He is writing the last page in his book.
Death takes a few steps forward. Once at the bedside, he sheaths his blade and extends his hand.
The confusion on Puss’ face is clear.
Death smiles. “The blade is for the foolish man who tries to run. The hand is for a wise man who accepts. And you haven’t been running for awhile, amigo.”
The familiar glaze of fond remembrance glosses his eyes. Somewhere in his mind, he is back in his younger body and boots, standing atop a star with his faithful friends. He is at what appears to be the end of his line, bathed in flame and sweat as he faces Death.
And he picks up his sword. He fights for his life.
Death’s next words seem to snap him out of it. "I will try to make this as painless as possible."
Puss blinks, slowly, and dips his chin. "Gracias… amigo."
“Mi honor, Gato.”
Death’s whistle fills his ears as Puss takes his hand. The second his paw brushes the very first tuft of white fur, Puss is dead. But death is not terrifying, like he once feared. No, it’s… It’s like a warm glass of milk in the stomach to drift him to sleep. It’s like the embrace and love of his mother. It’s the wit and banter of his brother, whom he will soon meet. It is the laughter of Perrito and the serenity of Kitty’s very presence. He is being carried, for once, and he does not mind.
He is… free.