My conversion from dog to cat person happened rather unexpectedly in
1993 when I went to meet my boyfriend’s family.
At
dinner, as I pulled out my heavy chair, I found a large cat sleeping there. The indignant Geraldine was not interested in
meeting me and she was definitely not interested in giving up her seat for me.
I slid into the seat and placed her on my lap. She let out a little grumble but then put her
head back down to resume her nap. I loved her indifference, her absolute refusal
to either appease me or assess me for in-law potential.
When I told my boyfriend
later that I wanted a cat, he said that it wasn’t a good idea, there would be
fur everywhere.
The next day he
called to say that he had found me a cat.
One lesson he had learned from his family, in addition to how to care
for cats, is how to deal with women. He
figured that a cat would be coming to live with us, so he might as well at
least have a hand in selecting the right one.
We went to see Joe and his brood of kittens. Joe immediately started his pitch: You
might as well take two. It’s no more
work and they can play together when you’re not home.
I glanced over at Jeff, who was busy playing
with a grey cat that had shimmied up the side of the tablecloth, pulling it
down and scattering trinkets everywhere.
I had a
small black kitten clinging to my chest.
Joe
should have been selling cars, not cats.
We left with two. That was
fifteen years ago.
I watch Edie
pacing the floors now, my large black cat, panther-like in her restless
movements. She stops abruptly in the
middle of a room, looks up, turns around and walks out, only to turn around a
few minutes later. In the middle of the night, I trip over her
dark, confused form.
Her once-rambunctious
brother Oscar has whittled his sturdy frame to a measly eight pounds, his spine
jutting out under his silky grey fur.
In their old age
and illness, as in their youth, they are as different as two cats can be, he
suffering physical disease, she with neurological decline. Yet they are still as compatible as they were
fifteen years ago, cleaning each other, curling up next to each other, dining
together, squabbling.
With more evidence of their incontinence, my
husband and I grumble that we should string them up by their claws. But we don’t.
We just toss out photos, children’s artwork, furniture and shoes that
have been saturated in cat pee.
We deny their
declining health until the day we have to accept the truth about our cats. We finally
make the difficult decision to help them die with dignity.
We agonize over the decision to euthanize them. Pacing alongside Edie, I search for a sign to guide me.
In our
uncertainty, we are sure about one thing.
These two entered the world together, and have spent their lives
together. When it is time to leave us,
they will go together.
The
quality of their lives has deteriorated.
There is a restlessness that defines them.
We
are unable to manage the mess of double feline incontinence any more. The odor in our basement is a testament to
our commitment to tolerate as much as we could.
I search my
soul. I brush my cats and love them. I pray for guidance, forgiveness and
peace. I remember Joe hustling us to take
two so they could play with each other.
I now ask heaven for the same favor.
Dear God, please take two.
Having spent a lot of our energy preparing the
children, I completely underestimate how grief-stricken I will be after they are
gone.
My days have been marked by swells of sadness
so raw they leave me reaching out for my cats.
They have been the ones, after all, who have consoled me for the past
fifteen years whenever I’ve been sad.
The physical
sensations are difficult to manage. I
see their shadows in the corner of the room, thinking I just missed the swish
of a tail through the doorway. I stop
when I enter a room and am faced with an empty chair.
I
still hear the quiet flup of
footprints leaping off of a chair or table.
I swear I can hear Oscar prowling on the counters, the creak of him on the
table, Edie grumbling as she passes below.
Getting into my desk chair, I still wait for that sudden movement behind
me, nuzzling my back.
At the risk of
offending any humans, losing a pet can sometimes feel worse. Few people spend as much time with us as our pets
do. They love us unconditionally. They are ideal family members who never criticize,
argue or disagree.
We comfort
ourselves with the belief that they are still together, free from pain,
discomfort or loneliness. And that
wherever they are, there’s a cat person to love them as much as we did.
Megan Davis Collins is a writer,
social worker and mother living in Billerica, the town she loves to call home.
Email her at megdavcol@gmail.com
