In the five months since my beloved Junebug died, I’ve managed to find other things to write about in this column. Indeed, I might’ve continued to avoid the subject but for the ah ha! moment when it occurred to me that I might be doing you readers a disservice by steering clear of such a touchy subject. I’m not the only one who’s lost a beloved pet, after all. So with your indulgence, I will address it now, and my apologies if I get too weepy.
Originally, Junebug’s adoption was a spur of the moment affair. I had stopped into the veterinarian’s one day to visit a friend of mine who worked there. She directed me to the kennels, where a mother cat and her offspring were waiting for my friend to take them home. She picked up a grey tabby kitten, cuddled it to her face, and said, “Just look at that smile!” I took one look and said, “Oh, all right!” And with that, my friend put the newly-minted Junebug into a box, along with some kibble – hoping, I’m sure, to send me on my way before I changed my mind.
Junebug wasn’t my first, or only, cat. Back at the chicken coop, where I lived, were three other cats, none of whom extended the paw of friendship to her. Introducing a new pet to already-established ones can be a tricky thing, and this instance was no exception. While Junebug grew up to be a bit of a bully, her kittenhood was another matter: she spent most of it following me around, knowing that I would protect her. Over the ensuing months, we established a bond quite unlike anything I had with the other three cats. Only, it happened so subtly, over the course of months, and then years, that I didn’t realize the depth of it until it became obvious that she was dying.
It was the little things – a lot of them – that, put together, added up to the sort of bond that not everyone experiences with a pet. Junebug slept next to my pillow virtually every night of her 13 years. She joined me in the loo, most nights, for a little us-time in which she would jump up onto my lap and enjoy a cuddle. If I wasn’t on the toilet, she’d sit patiently waiting for me to notice her. Once I had, I would sit down so that we could have those nightly minutes together. I would sing her the Junebug Song (no, I won’t be singing it here; it’s retired, now), rub my chin over her head multiple times, saying, as I did, I mark you for me! She would slime me with her face in response, telling me, I mark you for me, too!
The chicken coop’s hallway was a good 18 metres long. I used to throw snack treats down the length of it, which Junebug would chase. She would skitter and slide this way and that, gobbling up the treats and meowing for more. She loved that game!
After we moved to Critter Cottage, she spent the rest of her years napping in one sunbeam after another, enjoying the warmth while she kept me company in whatever room I was in. I loved all four – later five, with the addition of Gracie Ellen Tripod – of my cats, but Junebug and I shared something of a love affair. I had had similarly intimate relationships with cats before, but it had been a long time since the last one died.
Life continued at its usual pace until the day, last August, when I discovered that Junebug had lost an astonishing amount of weight. The first vet thought she was just getting old, but I wasn’t buying it, and had her seen to by a second vet, who was as alarmed as I was. Together, Dr. Royker and I struggled to find a reason for the weight loss, as well as a solution to a problem we didn’t understand. We tried numerous things, from steroid pills to appetite stimulants to sub-cutaneous infusions of fluids – none of which did anything more than offer a very temporary reprieve. When it became obvious that death was nipping at our heels, I began my search for a vet who would make a house call.
Dr. Oliver, that house-call-making vet who stood by, waiting for the signal from me that it was time, became my salvation: there was simply no way that I would make Junebug spend her last moments on earth in a noisy, smelly veterinary clinic. She would die in the comfort of her own home no matter what it took. Thankfully, Dr. Oliver understood how important that was to me.
In the time since Junebug’s death, I have struggled to come to terms with the new normal. The new normal consists of two cats whose main preoccupation is whether I will give them treats or not, a lovable mutt of a dog, two trash-talking ducks, and a horse that I don’t spend nearly enough time with, these days. It may sound like I have enough to keep me occupied, and I generally do. But then nighttime comes, and nighttime is a different matter altogether.
Have I mentioned that I’m Bi-Polar? I often liken it to having 20 trains coming and going out of the station around the clock. Indeed, it’s like Waterloo Station at rush hour – and that’s on a quiet day! Imagine even more trains as you lie awake trying to fall asleep, trains named I should’ve cut a snippet of her hair before she was cremated, and, how empty that space by my pillow is, and, I can’t believe I’ll never see her again! And there’s no way to turn it off, shut it down, make it silent.
My heart aches. Literally. I don’t normally give death a great deal of thought, until it happens. Then, it’s such an overwhelming sadness that crying isn’t nearly enough to quash it. Not seeing someone you love ever again in your lifetime is simply too much to take in. It’s like trying to imagine how big the universe is, and failing miserably because it’s beyond comprehension. And, those beloved pets take so much more than just their physical presence with them when they die. Indeed, they take a piece of me, as well: my heart now resembles Swiss cheese, there are so many holes in it.
Why adopt another pet? How could I not? Those thirteen years with Junebug were some of the happiest in my life. She was my steadfast and loyal companion. She kept me company through good and bad. She made me laugh. She offered me solace. There will never be another Junebug, but there will definitely be another love affair, some day. When my heart is ready.
