Working Through the Pain in 2024

Five weeks ago, this from this morning, my Calico walked out her pet door to pass away. The pain initially was like a busted fire hydrant, an unending, high-pressure cascade of grief. After a couple of weeks, it morphed to be more like a geyser, random intervals of intense misery. Things are much more manageable now, but my sadness sometimes bubbles to the surface, and mostly consists of shame and guilt.

On the mantle of my fireplace is an urn containing the ashes of Jasmine. Jasmine was a kitty that adopted my family when I was a senior in high school. She randomly showed up at our house asking for food and attention. We think she belonged to another family that moved away and just left her. My mom didn’t like cats, but eventually, she realized that taking care of her was the right thing to do. I was clearly her favorite, though.

I’d let her get in my lap. I’d spend the most time with her. I sit on the porch with her. I eventually started sneaking her in the house. My parents didn’t allow pets indoors, but the winters nights would get so cold, even if she had a heating pad in the garage. I’d wait for my parents to go to bed, then bring up to my room to stay with me. She’d always hiss when I put her outside in the morning. Whenever she was able to slip inside, like when my parents were bringing in groceries, she’s spring straight for my room. Eventually, my mom passed, my dad had his brain injury, I lost my job, and Dad, Jasmine, and me were living in Dad’s old hometown of Eastman, GA. Dad had warmed up to letting her stay inside, but she was firmly attached to me. She had a flea allergy; if any fleas got on her, she’d scratch herself raw, so I’d comb her regularly. She’d sleep with me, of course, but I eventually found work and had to move back to Atlanta.

I’d return for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Those visits were always hard because my dad had fully succumbed to his hording tendencies. The house was gross and filthy. There was an irony that he once wouldn’t let Jasmine stay inside. Really, Dad? Jasmine wasn’t the one hoarding used McDonald’s pancake containers. Being with Jasmine was the only highlight. She was always in my room on my bed like she was waiting for me.

Eventually, Jasmine’s age started catching up with her. Her kidney’s started to go. She had difficulties passing bowel movements, and she couldn’t remain hydrated. One weekend, Dad called me to say that she was going to pass. I didn’t go to see her that one last time. I knew that if she passed, Dad would be distraught, and Dad was already needly, clingy, and a bit emotionally manipulated, if intentionally so. Jasmine waited on my bed that night until she realized I wouldn’t be there, so she got on Dad’s bed, and passed on.

I felt so guilty for not being there for her when she died. I still feel the guilt, but this guilt from Calico’s death is arguably worse. It’s worse because she was dying all week, and I didn’t see it. She had hardly been eating her food. I thought she was just being picky. I figured I’d try a different brand after our box of Fancy Feast cans ran out. She was trying to coax attention out of me, and not that I ignored her, but I certainly would have shut off the damn computer and just loved on her if I knew that was out week. I feel guilty about all the times I got irritated with her, like when she’d constantly change spots on my desk while I was gaming. I’d say, “Calico, one spot is the same as the other,” and I’d try to get her to lay down. Eventually, she’d lay down at the corner of the desk and doze while I was wasting her last bit of time playing computer games. I feel bad about all the times I yelled at her for vomiting, peeing, or pooping on the carpet. I’d hear her come inside in the wee hours of the morning and proceed to vomit in the hall. I’d groan to myself, “you were just outside, you couldn’t do that there.” Not that she held a grudge. Within 20 minutes, she’d be back on my desk having me scratch her. God, I’d pay a thousand dollars to wake up tomorrow and a fresh one of her turds on the carpet.

I feel guilty for not taking her to the vet. I was supposed to do so the first week in July, when I’m off from work for the summer break. I didn’t because I was having some repair work performed on my car, so I was mostly homebound that week. I was then supposed to schedule it for the couple of weeks between the end of summer and beginning of fall semester. I didn’t then because I was occupied doing my reports before the deadline and setting up my classes. Had I just taken her, they probably couldn’t have saved her, but I would have known what was coming. Not that putting her to sleep would have been an easy or painless decision, but I wouldn’t have been caught by surprise. I would have been able to say goodbye. I would have been able to lay her remains to rest.

I had no idea when I saw her walk out that pet door that Saturday morning that she was going off to die. I had no idea I’d never see her again. Not just not see her alive again, but not see her at all. If I could just have a do over for that last week, I’d have spent every evening with her. I’d have bought her favorite treat, Wendy’s French fries, for a final meal. I’d have savored every moment. That alternative would have been infinitely more preferable to her just disappearing to die alone. I keep thinking about her remains being somewhere in my neighborhood’s wooded areas, being desecrated by the elements and scavenged on by other animals. Every time I see that pet door, I can’t unsee her walking through it for the very last time. I just didn’t know that was it.

Patches, my other cat, has been uncharacteristically affectionate. She regularly approaches me for attention. Patches won’t climb up on my desk and let me pet her like Calico would; she likes for me to sit on the floor, splay my legs in a “v” shape, and lay in between them, leaning on one of my inner thighs. At bed time, she’ll also jump on the bed to lay at my side. I suspect she misses her companion. She and Calico would go lay in the back yard together. Now she’s all alone until I get home from work. I have been toying with the idea of leaving my current job and seeking a telecommute accounting position. I suppose I’ll have to now, so Patches isn’t lonely. At least things are getting better.