Cat Shaped Hole

Yesterday, one of our cats died.

I remember when I was in high school, my albino hamster died.  One day we got home and he was …well, he wasn’t dead yet, but he was being very still, and his little pink feet were super cold.  I held him for a while, and put him back in his aquarium, and a few hours later he was dead.  We got a shovel and buried him in the garden alongside the house.

What I remember most about it was that I was dealing with the death of Binkleton Jehosephat Hobbes (I believe in large names for small creatures) by joking about it.  I don’t remember anything specific that I said, but I remember that it upset my parents.  Especially my stepmother – she always had a soft heart for animals, especially her pets, and to her sensibilities, my humor was seen as callous and disrespectful.

I wasn’t taking Binkley’s death lightly.  He was my first pet, and also my first first-hand experience with death, so it was no small deal.  What I was probably doing was coping with my teenage stress and grief in the only way I was wired to – tell jokes and play it off like no big whoop.

There wasn’t any joking about the decline and passing of our cat, though.  Partly, I believe, because a cat has a lot more personality than a hamster, which is pretty much a chittering, cedar-chip-smelling knick knack.  Also, a bit of sensitivity training – Elle is even more of an animal lover than my stepmother is, which is one of the great things about her.  The main reason for no jokes, though, was because no jokes came to mind.  I felt so bad for our poor deteriorating cat, and I was really sad to see her go.

In truth, I didn’t actually see her go.  We were both there for her while she was in declining health.  She went from a fat little cat that looked like a furry football or an extra-cute throw pillow, to a pretty scrawny thing with protruding ribs and over-huge, black-rimmed eyes, in a matter of a month.  She’d start sleeping in the closet, where it’s dark, coming out only to eat (but not much) or get attention (but not for long).  It was pretty heartbreaking.

She had lumps in her abdomen.  Not sure what kind, probably not cancer, but they were getting bigger and (we think) getting in the way of her walking and even breathing properly.  By the time we had her officially Looked At yesterday, she was breathing with her mouth open and unable to lay down comfortably.  She had to be given a break.  We have a friend who’s a holistic vet, who pays house calls.  The cat was laid to rest in a nice place surrounded by plants, near a friend’s house.  Elle showed me the grave this afternoon, just as it was starting to rain.

Like I said, I wasn’t there for her passing.  Time was of the essence, and I couldn’t be there, and Elle made the final (and proper) call.  Though I’ve accepted and dealt with it, it pains me that I couldn’t be there to say goodbye to her, make sure she knew she was loved by me, kiss her fuzzy head as she fell asleep (and then sneeze for several minutes thereafter).  Elle and I had a quiet night last night.  With no kids, these two cats are the closest we have to a family.  The two fur balls came into my life when Elle did, so they’re kind of like my step-pets, but I love ‘em like they were my own.  I’m gonna miss my cat. 

It’s funny how when a cat misbehaves it’s no longer yours.  “Make your cat be quiet,” you may find yourself saying, or “Your cat peed outside the bathroom door.”  …Actually you may find yourself saying things like “your dog” or “your kid” or even “your Subaru,” but what I said a lot was “your cat.”  Like, Elle’s cat.

There’s two cats, actually, and the one that died was not “Elle’s cat,” the one that meows all the time (especially bedtime and mealtime) and pees just about anywhere but the litterbox.  The one that died used to sleep in the crook of your arm while you were watching a movie, and she used to eat immediately after doing anything else.  Pet her and she’d go eat.  Wrestle with her and she’d go eat.  Look at her funny, and it’s off to the food dish.  When her dish was empty was the only time she’d meow, a cute and almost pitiful squeak of a noise that was often grooved with her purr.  She’d rub her head against your chin when you stroked her.  She’d wrestle with herself, and kick herself in the face till she …either won or lost, depending on whether you root for her head or her feet, then she’d go to the food dish for a snack.  Her purr was like a Corvette.

Rest in peace, Athena.  We miss you already.

~ by joshkauffman on July 30, 2009.