The Year of the Cat
An animal’s passing mattered most in 2022
I did not cry when my father died. I did not cry when I lost both my aunts. My daughter’s wedding produced no tears. A dear friend’s passing left my eyes dry. But every night as I slip into bed and feel for Troppa and find only a cold expanse of blanket, I bury my face into the mattress and sob from my depths. Every morning when I wake and mistake a sweater on the couch for her sleek fur I sob again. All day long little reminders of her presence produce choked little gasps: her empty pillow on the windowsill, her unopened cans of food on the shelf, doors left open in case she wants in, other doors kept closed to stop her if she wants all-the-way out.
She made no demands but for the occasional meow for food. She offered up a shared desire for companionship. She posed interesting, open-ended questions.
I used to have nothing but scorn for people who endlessly mourned dead pets. Or for those who went to five or even six figure extremes to rescue their animals from a too-soon ending. Why exhaust yourself financially and emotionally for a creature who will only stumble along in a diminished state and die eventually anyway? I only saw the hole left by these absent animals. I never saw the animal.
