The holidays are a special time of year, especially for college students. We enjoy all the… The holidays are a special time of year, especially for college students. We enjoy all the usual seasonal festivities, but we also get to escape the hurried pace of campus life, return to our cozy hometowns, and visit old friends — all while knowing that, in two weeks, we’ll be as far from the godforsaken boonies as we promised we would be after high school.

Yes, this is a magical season. But, unfortunately for me, winter break brings back the memory of the crisp December morning on which my dad gunned down my cat.

Allow me to explain. In 1987, my family adopted a calico, Manx kitten. My brother, age 3, wanted to name the cat The Riddler but I, age 4, strongly felt he should be christened Mr. Freeze. My parents put the matter to a vote.

Looking back, my brother and I should have formed a Batman-villain-name coalition and brought the vote to a tie, but, as demonstrated by our frequent attempts to push one another down flights of stairs over the custody of stuffed animals, compromise was not our strong suit.

My family voted 2-1-1 to name the cat Elliot. It was my first experience with participatory democracy and, up until last month, the only one that caused me to scream, sob and throw things against the wall.

Elliot, observing the behavior of my family, decided to spend most of his first three years of life behind the dryer.

In 1990, we moved from small-town Ohio to rural Pennsylvania, where Elliot discovered the vast woodlands behind our new home. He came inside occasionally to nibble on cat treats and bathe in the affection of his caretakers. But he spent most of his time outdoors, catnapping beneath sprawling oak trees, chasing chipmunks in shady thickets and rendez-vous-ing with female felines in daisy-filled meadows.

Then my dad shot him.

In my father’s defense, Elliot was 72 in cat years at the time of his death and had become sick. He had lost weight, smelled atrocious, and his coat hung in brambly clumps. Had we taken him to a veterinarian — a torturous experience for him in the past — the vet would have undoubtedly recommended putting his nasty ass to sleep.

Meanwhile, my dad had taken up hunting again. Dad tinkers around with various hobbies, but works too damn hard to pursue any of them seriously. Every few months, he ventures into the garage for his golf clubs or fishing rods, only to return them six weeks later.

In December 2002, he had once again taken out his hunting rifle. He ventured into our woods where squirrels and wild turkeys outsmarted him for several hours. Suddenly, he spotted Elliot and realized that the ailing, old cat would be an easy target.

A weary “meow” and a quick bullet to the head ended the life of Elliot the cat.

At about 10 a.m., Dad walked into the kitchen where I was munching on a bagel and preparing for another day of surfing the Internet, thumbing through an Orson Scott Card novel and meeting a high school friend at Long John Silver’s to discuss classmates we claim to despise but can’t stop talking about.

Dad poured himself a cup of coffee, sat down at the table, and announced, “I shot the cat.” He said it in the same way anyone else would say, “I emptied the dishwasher.” His stoicism was another aftereffect of years of hard work.

I, however, was flabbergasted. We held a vote to name the cat, but when it came time to murder him, Dad acted as judge, jury and executioner — literally!

Elliot had been around for three quarters of my life, and his passing was a milestone. My lazy winter-break harmony was shattered. I spent the rest of the day thinking about of the frailty of life, the weight of death and other things I am no closer to understanding today.

So go home this winter break and enjoy good times and warm memories. I will be marking the second anniversary of the passing my dear Elliot and never taking my eyes off my family’s two decade-old Labrador retrievers.

Nick Keppler wishes all Pitt News readers a happy holiday. E-mail Nick a seasonal greeting at [email protected].