I trust you’ll pardon me for stating the obvious, but since 4 of 5 of my cats are now gone, things are, indeed, different. When you’re dealing with the immediate grief, just after your pet has died, you don’t realize that the next stage of grief is the adjustment to the New Normal – that time when you become aware of, and keenly miss, the things that you had always taken for granted. I’m in that adjustment phase now.
I didn’t realize, when three-legged Gracie died, that I would miss her jumping clumsily onto my home office desk, scattering my papers and coming dangerously close to mucking up my keyboard. Every single time, I would quickly pick her up and set her behind me on my chair, as she was small enough to fit back there. Sometimes, she would get the hint and stay where she was, and sometimes, she would jump back on to the desk again. Either way, she would emit these rather odd sounds, rather like a human saying, “ek!” They were her signature noise. My chair seems rather lonely, now, with just one occupant.
I didn’t realize, when Muffin died, that I would miss her quiet presence. I adopted her at the age of three from the local shelter. She had a mild personality and a fondness for cuddling, and I could always count on her to jump onto the ottoman and keep me company whilst I watched telly. Muff was never terribly assertive, preferring to stand by as the other cats clamoured for treats or attention, so there might have been a time or two in which she felt forgotten. I always tried to reassure her that that was not the case. After she died, the silence left by her calm, quiet presence became deafening.
I didn’t realize, when Spanky the ginger tabby died, that I would miss his wails of misery. Spanky took rejection very seriously, and whenever the female cats told him to bugger off, he’d wander around the house wailing because he thought no one loved him. He was always good for a cuddle, and, when I was still living at the chicken coop, he often joined Junebug in chasing the snack treats I’d throw up and down the long hallway. Spanky was a big fan of being groomed, and I tried to brush him as often as possible for just that reason. My home seems a bit too quiet, now, without all that wailing.
I didn’t realized when my beloved favorite Junebug died that there was nothing that I wouldn’t miss about her. Every day for the past three years, I’ve missed one thing or another that I’d taken for granted for thirteen years: her sleeping next to my pillow every night; her joining me in the loo whilst I performed my nightly brush-and-wash ritual; her knowingly scratching several forbidden pieces of furniture right in front of my eyes, as though she were consciously aware of defying my wishes; the way she would shove her way to the head of the line whenever I handed out catnip. I could go on and on.
Of course, I have all sorts of mementos about the house. Photographs abound. Painted likenesses on ornaments hang on the Christmas tree. Old medications that the cats used before they died are lying at the back of my closet. I haven’t the heart to throw them away. Many days, it’s difficult to look at any of them; they are painful reminders of how much I’ve lost.
There is one consolation: Buddy, my twenty year-old cat, seems to have forgotten that he was always a hands-off feline. He enjoyed being petted, but didn’t want to be picked up. And he wasn’t a lap cat. Nowadays, he wants to sleep curled up next to me at night, and right now, as I write this, he’s curled up on the floor next to my chair. He often joins me in the loo, as well. These things don’t make up for the losses I’ve suffered, but they soften the sharp edges a bit.
A word of caution, offered by one who knows: mark all of those special occasions with your pet well. Someday, it will be hard to remember them. Take an excessive number of photos. Set aside that tuft of hair for when they’re gone – you’ll want it then. Conscript an artist you know to paint likenesses for you to hang on your walls. You’re going to want that, too. Make your memories as tangible as possible, and never mind what others may think about it. Your time with them goes so fast, and theirs is a damnably short life. They’re here, and then they’re gone, and they won’t be coming back, so do whatever it takes to sear their memories into your brain. On that cheery note, I bid you farewell until next time.
By the way: the ornaments pictured in the photo that accompanies this article are masterpieces I had made to honor the animals I’ve loved and lost. You can find them on Etsy at colorbyclaire. She’s an very talented artist. Tell her Kelly sent you. And if you’re wondering what to buy for that animal-lover on your Christmas list, all four of my critter-themed memoirs are available on Amazon: Crazy Critter Lady; No Better Medicine; Sorry, Honey But The Critters Come First; and No Matter What.
