i'm missing you.

...i thought i was okay

06.15.05

It's been a few weeks since Trent died, and I thought I was okay with things now. I loved him a lot, and I know that he loved me, too.

Sure, I wistfully reminisce about a big lump of blue-eyed kitty, curled up next to me on the sofa, purring away blissfully while Tifling, Willybean and I would watch a movie or something together. You can't forget that kind of love. I can even hear Gabriel in a far off room, meowing, lost but knowing that we're there somewhere, and that if he yowled enough we'd reveal our secret location.

But, I guess when I was grieving his absence, I was grieving his absence in Tif and Will's life, and not mine. He'd had health problem after health problem that he always seemed to beat, but not this time. I felt sorry for Tif because I knew she felt guilty that maybe she did or didn't do something, the 'what if' guilt that a parent feels after a tragedy. And I felt terrible for Wil, because he'd been trapped in the South somewhere, conducting important business that he definitely couldn't miss, feeling the 'if only' grief of the absent parent. I was heartbroken that Trent died at the vet, although he died the least painful and swiftest way that his health status would allow, and that he didn't have loved ones around him.

When I still lived on the farm, between Iowa City and here, Celeste gave birth to a litter of three kittens. Dora the little gray tabby, Cricket the little black demon, and CJ the sweet, fluffy calico that looked like her aunt, Clarissa.

At first, all of the kittens were in fine health, seemingly free of all the maladies that seemed to plague the outside cats. But then suddenly CJ took a turn for the worse, and we all knew that she was going to die. There was no reason to take her to the vet because we all had enough experience with the farm cats to know that it'd be spending a whole lot of money on a poor creature that no one could possibly save. So, we each took turns sitting with her curled up next to us on the sofa, nestled gently in a bed made out of a soft towel and some clever twisting and tucking.

CJ was lying on the sofa next to me, curled up in her nest, almost perfectly still except for her breathing. Every once in a while she'd go still for a moment, and then make a small gasp for air, before settling back down into quiescence. Midway through my watch, the gasps were becoming further and further apart, so I turned my attention to her, gently stroking her fur and whispering to her that we loved her and that we would always love her, as she made a little coughing noise, and then silently slipped into oblivion.

Generally speaking, when you tell someone your dog died, you get a lot of sympathy and empathy and outpouring of emotion. Pats on the back, hugs, reminiscing about how wonderful Rusty was and how he reminded everyone of Marmaduke, canine-themed cards, and maybe even a mylar "With Sympathy" balloon. You might even get the day off, or at least get cut some slack in regards to some obligation or other.

When you tell someone that your cat died, you get a response more along the lines of, "Oh, jeez. That's too bad. Are you okay? Oh, and can you pass me the salt cellar, please? These potatoes are a little bland."

Trent was my friend, even if he was a cat.

He was loving and kind and sweet and more than a pet.

He was a little character that would comfort you when you felt bad, lay on your keyboard when you needed to type something, shed taupey-grey fur all over your black pants, and wake you up at 4am because he needed to climb under the covers with you.

I store things in the basement of Tif n' Wil's house because I chose an apartment that sacrificed off-season storage for semi-sheltered, private parking spaces.

Many of the times that I have gone down into their basement, whether to get something from storage, or to put something in storage, or even to go help fold sheets or something, I have had to shoo Trent away from the door and shut it firmly behind me so that he wouldn't follow me down the steps. He liked to go places that were forbidden, and the basement is rife with hidey holes and mysterious taboo goods.

Last night, I went to store a box in the basement, and reflexively pulled the handle to make sure Trent couldn't push it open. And then I realized that I didn't need to shut the door tightly behind me again. I realized that I was never going to chase Trent around the basement again, waving my arms and calling him a bad boy, until finally convincing him to run back up the steps and out into the kitchen or dining room of his own accord.

And as I wandered back up the stairs, I started weeping.

As I walked through the hall and into the office, the weeping turned into snuffling and crying, and Tif concernedly asked me what was wrong.

Between loud sobs, I managed to gasp out, "I just realized I'm never going to chase Trent around the basement again."

And then she put her arms around me as I started truly bawling, hugging me tightly, simply and sadly replying, "I know."