Figaro
1992-2008
In retrospect on February 5, 2010...
I knew it was time. He could no longer move or even raise his head. His breathing was deep, loud, and painful... and remembering my grandmother a few months prior, I knew a death rattle when I heard one. I called one of my best friends to keep me sane. I lay on my bed, my boy on my chest, and felt him slipping away. Talking to him the whole time, telling him I loved him, how much joy he had brought to my life, and that it was ok for him to go now. I cried as quietly as I could, but every so often a sob or sniffle would escape and he would convulse in my arms (in fear? was he scared that I would somehow hurt him while he was defenseless?); this made me ache even more for having caused it. I wanted him in my arms when he left, to comfort him or myself I'm not sure, probably both. Pat waited quietly in the next room. As much as I needed to pee, I held it in until I thought I would wet the bed. When I had no choice but to go, I placed him on a pillow, wrapped in my t-shirt. A minute later, when I returned, he was gone.
After Pat left, I put on some music. The first song to play was "Into The West", by Annie Lennox. Many of the lyrics mirrored what I felt in my heart; I made it his song.
For the next year when I thought of him, I was numb. I could not see him or hear him, in my mind or in my memories. I didn't play that song; it didn't call to me at all. I didn't cry when I thought of him or looked at his pictures. I didn't know why. Had all the new cats in my life replaced him? Had he really meant that little to me?
One day while browsing my facebook galleries and listening to music, I came across his pics. And iTunes began playing his song. On the other side of the office door, the other cats began howling and scratching. I felt him head-butt my chin and purr in my ear as he always had, and I knew he was in the room with me.* I realized then that I was finally crying for my boy, love and pain reaching a pitch I was unaware that my voice could produce.
* True story. 4 of my best friends have passed (including Fig); 3 have since come to say goodbye.
I'm crying again as I write this.
In retrospect on February 5, 2010...
I knew it was time. He could no longer move or even raise his head. His breathing was deep, loud, and painful... and remembering my grandmother a few months prior, I knew a death rattle when I heard one. I called one of my best friends to keep me sane. I lay on my bed, my boy on my chest, and felt him slipping away. Talking to him the whole time, telling him I loved him, how much joy he had brought to my life, and that it was ok for him to go now. I cried as quietly as I could, but every so often a sob or sniffle would escape and he would convulse in my arms (in fear? was he scared that I would somehow hurt him while he was defenseless?); this made me ache even more for having caused it. I wanted him in my arms when he left, to comfort him or myself I'm not sure, probably both. Pat waited quietly in the next room. As much as I needed to pee, I held it in until I thought I would wet the bed. When I had no choice but to go, I placed him on a pillow, wrapped in my t-shirt. A minute later, when I returned, he was gone.
After Pat left, I put on some music. The first song to play was "Into The West", by Annie Lennox. Many of the lyrics mirrored what I felt in my heart; I made it his song.
For the next year when I thought of him, I was numb. I could not see him or hear him, in my mind or in my memories. I didn't play that song; it didn't call to me at all. I didn't cry when I thought of him or looked at his pictures. I didn't know why. Had all the new cats in my life replaced him? Had he really meant that little to me?
One day while browsing my facebook galleries and listening to music, I came across his pics. And iTunes began playing his song. On the other side of the office door, the other cats began howling and scratching. I felt him head-butt my chin and purr in my ear as he always had, and I knew he was in the room with me.* I realized then that I was finally crying for my boy, love and pain reaching a pitch I was unaware that my voice could produce.
* True story. 4 of my best friends have passed (including Fig); 3 have since come to say goodbye.
I'm crying again as I write this.