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textualdevianceThe house seems empty without her. I can't go downstairs without feeling like something's wrong. Coming home, coming through the door is weird because she's not rushing up to greet us, and begging for food.
Fammy has started making herself at home in the places KB used to be. She's taken to sitting between us when we're watching TV. It's nice. But it's not the same.
Parents aren't supposed to pick favorites, and I suppose that applies to parents of furbabies, too, but in this case, there's no contest. I love my other three dearly--each has a distinct personality--but there was something truly special about KB. I've had a lot of pets in my life, and some are just different. Some go beyond that furry, scaly or feathered pal into someone. I was deeply emotionally bonded with her, and I can't let her go.
People who have never experienced this kind of connection with a non-human won't get it. People who have just had "pets" and not friends don't understand. I'm fortunate that I've recieved nothing but honest sympathy so far--and thank you for that--but I also feel the need to keep this close to my vest. I'm not the crazy cat lady--though I suppose I could be, someday--but what I'm going through right now is something I just can't explain to people who didn't know her, and didn't know what a truly remarkable individual she was, despite being covered in shaggy fur and less than fluent in human speech.
Tuesday it will be 10 years to the day that I lost Jay, my childhood dog. That's the closest I've come to feeling the way I do, now. But I had been out of the house for several years at that point, and he was living with my parents, so I didn't have quite the same connection. Though most of the last year has been spent only seeing her on weekends, KB was a part of my daily life for 16 years. With the exception of vacations, each day was spent at least thinking about her, and attending to her needs. I lost track of how much money we spent on her vet bills in the last few years, after she was diagnosed diabetic. And every penny was never an issue. It was just what needed to be done.
I went through a bunch of photo albums, looking for pictures of her, and was dismayed that I had so few. The oldest pic I could find was from my old apartment, just after I'd moved out of the house I rented with my ex. This was Dec. 1994. By then, I'd already had her for three years, and had had Punky for two. I don't even have pics of him as a kitten, which bothers me. But I do cherish the pics I have. So many things to remember. So much of my life gone by, with her always there.
When we first moved from Reno to Portland, the ex and I lived in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment in Beaverton. I had brought my cockatiel, ET, with me, and he kept us company. I'd never had cats as pets before, except for when I was very young. We'd always had dogs and birds and rodents, and they wouldn't have worked out, and my dad didn't like them anyway. I didn't look for a cat. She found me. She was wandering around our section of the complex, and our neighbors would occasionally feed her, but they had no idea to whom she belonged. She had no collar and seemed unkempt, and ravenously ate the plates of bacon bits I'd set out for her. After a few months of this, I realized she didn't have a home and decided to take her in.
When the ex and I came back from our honeymoon, we came back to a disaster. The cat, being a cat, had managed to get into the bird's cage. The eight-year relationship I'd had with ET ended in blood and feathers and a guilty look on the cat's face. Angry, I tossed her out. But she kept coming back. She'd sit in front of the door, looking up at me--almost apologetically. She'd head butt my leg and mewl softly at me, asking me to let her in. After a while, I finally gave in.
The cat thing was new to me. It was annoying to the ex, who detested animals in general. I had to figure out litter boxes and feeding times. I had to deal with keeping her inside when she'd grown used to being outdoors. She was slightly pregnant when she found us, so we got a kitty abortion when we got her fixed. When we moved to our rented house, she came with. But the ex insisted that she stay in the basement, because he hated having her climbing on him. This was probably the worst decision I made. I should've put him in the basement instead.
A year or so into this, a squeaky, orange fuzzball showed up in our driveway. Over the ex's protests, the fuzzball was sent to the basement to keep KB company. Mostly, she smacked him around. But after a short while, they became good friends. I would come home after work and classes to make sure they had food and water, and spend some time sitting on the stairs, grooming them (they were full of fleas) and giving them the attention they should've had if the dumb ex had let them be around us.
To be sure, there were other considerations. We'd gotten another bird, and wanted him to stay safe, and also had an aquarium and various small critters. I'm sad to say that I really didn't take very good care of all of them. I was busy, and deep in the throes of poorly managed depression, and I just couldn't do it right. But somehow, the cats stayed relatively healthy. Eventually, I chucked the ex, and packed up the cats and started my new life.
Things went uphill from there. With the exception of a really shitty January, I finally started getting my head screwed on straight. The cats helped a lot. When I felt that no one else loved me or cared if I lived or died, they were there. Many times I felt like offing myself I didn't, because I worried about what would happen to them if I was gone. M came along and loved the cats--and they loved him--and that showed me I finally found the right one.
That year--95--was chaotic, to say the very least. We moved from Portland to Medford and had some great times and some horrible times there. We also acquired a kitten, thanks to my boss telling me I had to take one or lose my job. KB and Punky set about teaching the new little one--Penny--who was boss, and she's been kind of the family doorstop ever since. After a miserable fall, we finally packed up and headed north, to the land of opportunity. A little over a year later, we got married. That will be 10 years this Wednesday.
A couple more moves, many more people coming and going from the house. Another cat--Fammy--coming to us. Me doing various things, but otherwise finally getting my mental health to a reasonably normal state. Life has gone on. My focus has been getting our finances in order, finding my life path, keeping M in smooth running order, getting into flamewars... Life. We've been in this house seven years, now. Seven... seems like so little, but really so much. Especially when you're 85 in cat years.
When she was diagnosed with diabetes and then later early kidney disease, I guess I kind of knew. Indoor cats live an average of 15 years, and her first year or so had been decidedly less than ideal conditions. She didn't get quite the vet care she should've when she was younger, due to our crappy finances and my crappy ex. That she lived to 17(ish) is really quite remarkable. But I guess I'd always thought I'd have her for at least a little while longer.
When they found the growth on her liver last September, I realized we were on borrowed time. I did everything I could for her, but the growth wasn't going to go anywhere, and with the rest of her system compromised, it was only a matter of time. I never had a problem with needing to do what I had to when she seemed to be in pain, but she hadn't, yet. Her eating habits were odd, but she otherwise seemed alert and active. I dreaded having to make the call to let her go. But I guess she decided to not put me through that. I really wish I could've seen her one last time, but at least I did get to say goodbye before I left last Monday.
I feel strange. I don't really know how to do the grief thing. I keep wondering what stage I'm at and can't figure out whether it's denial, depression or acceptance. I've lost some relatives, and there was the whole scary mess with M's brother a few years ago, but I've never really lost someone I was emotionally bonded with. At least not to death. Everyone I've lost was either someone I wasn't all that fond of in the first place, or someone I had been distinctly out of touch with. The closest, as I mentioned above, was my dog. Odd, really, that it's almost exactly 10 years between those. This wasn't really a shock, especially given her anorexia in the last week. I think I've been mentally preparing for this for several months now. But I also didn't expect it to happen quite like this, and I can't help feeling unsettled and like I wish I could go back and do it "right." Or something.
I want to write some Hallmark sentiment and think of rainbow bridges and stuff. But that's not who I am. Her remains are being cremated, and I think we'll get a container for them, but that's about it. What she was is gone and not floating in heaven or whatever. I'm left with just a few pictures and a lot of memories. I know I'll always know the exact texture of her fur, and exactly what her purr sounded like. I know I'll always have that sense memory of her clambering into my lap and head butting any available hand. She went through so much with me, and I only wish I could've made her early life better than it was. But I tried very hard to give her a good life when I could. It was the least I could do for the joy and love she gave me so selflessly, so consistently, for so long.
When she came into my life, I was 19 and stupid. I had no idea what the Internet was. I didn't even own a computer much less a cell phone. I hadn't even yet decided to be a music major and I thought I was a Libertarian. Now I'm a lot fatter, a lot slower, a lot geekier, and a lot more sure of myself and my path in life. Although, to be perfectly honest, M deserves most of the credit for getting me this far, that wonderful cat was also part of this transformation. I love her, and I miss her, and I will be forever grateful for what she gave me for 16 years.
ETA: I've uploaded a bunch more pics of her and the others in my Furbabies gallery. There are a few more to come.
Fammy has started making herself at home in the places KB used to be. She's taken to sitting between us when we're watching TV. It's nice. But it's not the same.
Parents aren't supposed to pick favorites, and I suppose that applies to parents of furbabies, too, but in this case, there's no contest. I love my other three dearly--each has a distinct personality--but there was something truly special about KB. I've had a lot of pets in my life, and some are just different. Some go beyond that furry, scaly or feathered pal into someone. I was deeply emotionally bonded with her, and I can't let her go.
People who have never experienced this kind of connection with a non-human won't get it. People who have just had "pets" and not friends don't understand. I'm fortunate that I've recieved nothing but honest sympathy so far--and thank you for that--but I also feel the need to keep this close to my vest. I'm not the crazy cat lady--though I suppose I could be, someday--but what I'm going through right now is something I just can't explain to people who didn't know her, and didn't know what a truly remarkable individual she was, despite being covered in shaggy fur and less than fluent in human speech.
Tuesday it will be 10 years to the day that I lost Jay, my childhood dog. That's the closest I've come to feeling the way I do, now. But I had been out of the house for several years at that point, and he was living with my parents, so I didn't have quite the same connection. Though most of the last year has been spent only seeing her on weekends, KB was a part of my daily life for 16 years. With the exception of vacations, each day was spent at least thinking about her, and attending to her needs. I lost track of how much money we spent on her vet bills in the last few years, after she was diagnosed diabetic. And every penny was never an issue. It was just what needed to be done.
I went through a bunch of photo albums, looking for pictures of her, and was dismayed that I had so few. The oldest pic I could find was from my old apartment, just after I'd moved out of the house I rented with my ex. This was Dec. 1994. By then, I'd already had her for three years, and had had Punky for two. I don't even have pics of him as a kitten, which bothers me. But I do cherish the pics I have. So many things to remember. So much of my life gone by, with her always there.
When we first moved from Reno to Portland, the ex and I lived in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment in Beaverton. I had brought my cockatiel, ET, with me, and he kept us company. I'd never had cats as pets before, except for when I was very young. We'd always had dogs and birds and rodents, and they wouldn't have worked out, and my dad didn't like them anyway. I didn't look for a cat. She found me. She was wandering around our section of the complex, and our neighbors would occasionally feed her, but they had no idea to whom she belonged. She had no collar and seemed unkempt, and ravenously ate the plates of bacon bits I'd set out for her. After a few months of this, I realized she didn't have a home and decided to take her in.
When the ex and I came back from our honeymoon, we came back to a disaster. The cat, being a cat, had managed to get into the bird's cage. The eight-year relationship I'd had with ET ended in blood and feathers and a guilty look on the cat's face. Angry, I tossed her out. But she kept coming back. She'd sit in front of the door, looking up at me--almost apologetically. She'd head butt my leg and mewl softly at me, asking me to let her in. After a while, I finally gave in.
The cat thing was new to me. It was annoying to the ex, who detested animals in general. I had to figure out litter boxes and feeding times. I had to deal with keeping her inside when she'd grown used to being outdoors. She was slightly pregnant when she found us, so we got a kitty abortion when we got her fixed. When we moved to our rented house, she came with. But the ex insisted that she stay in the basement, because he hated having her climbing on him. This was probably the worst decision I made. I should've put him in the basement instead.
A year or so into this, a squeaky, orange fuzzball showed up in our driveway. Over the ex's protests, the fuzzball was sent to the basement to keep KB company. Mostly, she smacked him around. But after a short while, they became good friends. I would come home after work and classes to make sure they had food and water, and spend some time sitting on the stairs, grooming them (they were full of fleas) and giving them the attention they should've had if the dumb ex had let them be around us.
To be sure, there were other considerations. We'd gotten another bird, and wanted him to stay safe, and also had an aquarium and various small critters. I'm sad to say that I really didn't take very good care of all of them. I was busy, and deep in the throes of poorly managed depression, and I just couldn't do it right. But somehow, the cats stayed relatively healthy. Eventually, I chucked the ex, and packed up the cats and started my new life.
Things went uphill from there. With the exception of a really shitty January, I finally started getting my head screwed on straight. The cats helped a lot. When I felt that no one else loved me or cared if I lived or died, they were there. Many times I felt like offing myself I didn't, because I worried about what would happen to them if I was gone. M came along and loved the cats--and they loved him--and that showed me I finally found the right one.
That year--95--was chaotic, to say the very least. We moved from Portland to Medford and had some great times and some horrible times there. We also acquired a kitten, thanks to my boss telling me I had to take one or lose my job. KB and Punky set about teaching the new little one--Penny--who was boss, and she's been kind of the family doorstop ever since. After a miserable fall, we finally packed up and headed north, to the land of opportunity. A little over a year later, we got married. That will be 10 years this Wednesday.
A couple more moves, many more people coming and going from the house. Another cat--Fammy--coming to us. Me doing various things, but otherwise finally getting my mental health to a reasonably normal state. Life has gone on. My focus has been getting our finances in order, finding my life path, keeping M in smooth running order, getting into flamewars... Life. We've been in this house seven years, now. Seven... seems like so little, but really so much. Especially when you're 85 in cat years.
When she was diagnosed with diabetes and then later early kidney disease, I guess I kind of knew. Indoor cats live an average of 15 years, and her first year or so had been decidedly less than ideal conditions. She didn't get quite the vet care she should've when she was younger, due to our crappy finances and my crappy ex. That she lived to 17(ish) is really quite remarkable. But I guess I'd always thought I'd have her for at least a little while longer.
When they found the growth on her liver last September, I realized we were on borrowed time. I did everything I could for her, but the growth wasn't going to go anywhere, and with the rest of her system compromised, it was only a matter of time. I never had a problem with needing to do what I had to when she seemed to be in pain, but she hadn't, yet. Her eating habits were odd, but she otherwise seemed alert and active. I dreaded having to make the call to let her go. But I guess she decided to not put me through that. I really wish I could've seen her one last time, but at least I did get to say goodbye before I left last Monday.
I feel strange. I don't really know how to do the grief thing. I keep wondering what stage I'm at and can't figure out whether it's denial, depression or acceptance. I've lost some relatives, and there was the whole scary mess with M's brother a few years ago, but I've never really lost someone I was emotionally bonded with. At least not to death. Everyone I've lost was either someone I wasn't all that fond of in the first place, or someone I had been distinctly out of touch with. The closest, as I mentioned above, was my dog. Odd, really, that it's almost exactly 10 years between those. This wasn't really a shock, especially given her anorexia in the last week. I think I've been mentally preparing for this for several months now. But I also didn't expect it to happen quite like this, and I can't help feeling unsettled and like I wish I could go back and do it "right." Or something.
I want to write some Hallmark sentiment and think of rainbow bridges and stuff. But that's not who I am. Her remains are being cremated, and I think we'll get a container for them, but that's about it. What she was is gone and not floating in heaven or whatever. I'm left with just a few pictures and a lot of memories. I know I'll always know the exact texture of her fur, and exactly what her purr sounded like. I know I'll always have that sense memory of her clambering into my lap and head butting any available hand. She went through so much with me, and I only wish I could've made her early life better than it was. But I tried very hard to give her a good life when I could. It was the least I could do for the joy and love she gave me so selflessly, so consistently, for so long.
When she came into my life, I was 19 and stupid. I had no idea what the Internet was. I didn't even own a computer much less a cell phone. I hadn't even yet decided to be a music major and I thought I was a Libertarian. Now I'm a lot fatter, a lot slower, a lot geekier, and a lot more sure of myself and my path in life. Although, to be perfectly honest, M deserves most of the credit for getting me this far, that wonderful cat was also part of this transformation. I love her, and I miss her, and I will be forever grateful for what she gave me for 16 years.
ETA: I've uploaded a bunch more pics of her and the others in my Furbabies gallery. There are a few more to come.
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