Learning that mourning a cat isn't silly at all.
Kitty
This week, the cat who’s allowed me to live with her for 11 years slipped out of my life as suddenly as she slipped in.
Tuesday started off like any other day. I hit the snooze button a zillion times and finally hoisted myself out of bed and threw on sweats to start my day. Kitty met me at the bottom of the stairs, where she was waiting for me most mornings, and I poured her a bowl of kibble and went about my routine.
As I was making a frittata a few hours later, I heard a sound -- like a loud sneeze -- and peered into the narrow hallway where we kept the cat’s water to find her sprawled on the floor, struggling to breathe.
The rest still seems like a terrible dream. Putting her in a small laundry basket and racing to the animal hospital. Testing. Calls back and forth with the doctor as covid now prevents any in person interaction from taking place. A glimmer of hope when she perked up and the vet decided she was fine to go home. A horrifying car ride when she suddenly could not breathe again and had something akin to a seizure in the basket on my lap as my daughter desperately tried to get up back to the hospital. And finally, a decision needed to be made. What do you do? How far are you willing to go?
It’s days like Tuesday that make me question why we have pets in the first place. How are our hearts strong enough to withstand the inevitable pain of the end? I’d already lost two dogs. One went outside one cold November day and just died on our deck. The other collapsed under the kitchen table one night out of the blue and later passed away while my daughter, her dad and I dug our fingers into his golden fur and told him he was the very best boy.
On Tuesday, Kitty died on my lap while my younger daughter and I stroked her soft fur and told her how much we loved her. How she was such a special part of our family. That she was just the best kitty.
We sat with her for a while after it was over in the hospital’s “comfort room” with a wooden statue of St. Francis looking over us from a shelf on the wall. My daughter and I put our heads together to sob and tried to take in our kitty one more time: her small velvet nose; the front paws she’d use to “knead the dough” before she settled into her blanket along the back of the couch; her regal whiskers that stretched off the sides of her face and sprang out above her bright green eyes; the lynx-like pointy ears that gave an exotic air to a cat we’d found half-frozen in an Amazon box in our garage one snowy December night.
The house seems lonely without her. You never knew where she would crop up. Recently, she startled me when I found her dozing on a round ottoman in my closet that’s tucked right next to a cozy radiator. Sometimes I’d run to the basement to grab a roll of paper towels and find her hanging out on the floor in the dark. A few times, I’d be watching a show in the TV room when she suddenly crawled out from under the couch. There was definitely a spooky side to her.
But it’s the strips of sunlight on the floor that are killing me. I threw out anything that reminded me of her — the brush I’d use to tame the mohawk that ran along her spine, the animal print ceramic bowls, and the still half-full stocking of toys she got for Christmas. I had my teenager pack that all up in a big contractor bag and haul it to the street for garbage day.
But there’s nothing I can do about the sunlight that slides into the house mid-morning. That’s where Kitty spent the bulk of her time, basking in the warmth on her back, her pale furry tummy lying naked and exposed, her sweet striped face tilted off to the side.
I know that over time I’ll stop looking for her at the bottom of the stairs each morning. I won’t expect to see her sitting in the bay window waiting for me when I pull into the driveway. As the days and weeks go by, I won’t think twice about the strip of sun that moves across the carpet of my office throughout the day.
I'm not gonna lie: Kitty was a handful at times. She really tried at first to be the boss of this entire operation before finally settling for the #2 spot. She was bossy and assertive but over time, that became a part of her charm. She lightly tolerated the two dogs she lived with over her 11 years and liked to give certain visitors the stink eye so they'd remember to stay in their lanes.
I had to cancel an appointment with my therapist the day Kitty died. When I followed up later to tell her what happened and see if she had any time this week to fit me in, I texted that I was pretty sad. “So silly to be so upset about a cat,” I said and she told me it wasn’t silly at all.
When that cat showed up half-dead in our garage 11 years ago, I had no idea the kind of joy she would bring to my life. That she would become such an important member of our family and that when she was gone, I’d drop down on my knees and sob.
No, mourning the loss of Kitty isn't silly at all. What's silly, in fact, was thinking of her as "just a cat." She wasn't just a cat. She was our Kitty.
xoAmy
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