Coping
I've been reading some cat poetry and cat quoutes to try to cope. I know its only been 9 days... it feels like weeks. Each day a long string of grief, misery, and trying to be normal.
Being in the kitchen and bathroom is hard. I keep waiting for a little grey paw to be thrust underneath the bathroom door, demanding to be let in. I imagine him sitting there while I put on my makeup, "talking" to me while I ask him how his day was, and I imagine him begging for food or asking for the kitchen faucet to be turned on or for a mousie to be thrown so he can race across the house, knocking over other cats in the chase for the prize.
I keep waiting for him to wake me up in the morning, his cold nose on my cheek. I wait for his weight in my arms or in my lap...
I think I've made some progress. For a week I couldn't even look at pictures of Russian Blues, and of course with him gone, I noticed them in advertising all the more. I ripped the picture of one from the packaging of a flea comb, because I couldn't stand to look at it. I threw away a receipt for mousies and kitty food, because I bought it for him, and he wouldn't be eating it. I'm glad the vet told us to feed Science Diet kitten food to Bigby, because automatically looking for fish based Friskies was killing me - Gilgi wouldn't eat anything BUT tuna, oceanfish, mixed salmon type foods. Its hard to break old habits.
The slow days at the Dealership are hard - when there's nothing to do, I have nothing else to think about but him. I'm glad I have to corner to myself to cry in.
I remembered a Sandman story, about a little girl petting a white Persian kitten that the mom's boyfriend had bought for her. The boyfriend couldn't understand why she didn't seem excited about the new $400 kitten - it was much better than the one he'd backed over in the driveway. She liked the kitten - it just wasn't her old cat. In a later issue, the story continues: Bast, an ageing goddess, hears the prayers of the little girl just after the accident, and with some of the last of her waning power, blesses the cat with death to deliver it from the pain. The goddess survives on bits of prayers and the love humans give to her animals. The ghosts of cats attend the her, swirling about her feet.
I wish I could demand my cat back from Bast. I know she's a kindly goddess to her feline followers, but I hate God and I almost hate her for taking him from me. I don't think I've ever prayed so much and so hard in my life. I don't know who I'm praying to, but I hope they get the idea - take care of him. And give him back someday. Keep me from having day and nightmares. Re-living that night drives me insane. Keep my other cats safe. I can't take another replay of this incident.
Bigy, the kitten my Uncle Randy gave me, helps a lot. Kittens are healing balm for the soul. He bounces wildly around the house, climbs to the top of the fridge, (and then can't get down - something I was waiting for Gilgi to discover), pesters Squirt by jumping on his tail and chasing him around the house (which sometimes annoys Squirt, and sometimes he likes). He backflips and tumbles and runs into walls and falls off the bed. And after he tires out, he crawls into your lap to snooze and cuddle. He's so soft, just like Gilgi was. Sometimes while I pet him, I pretend I'm petting Gilgi. Not too often, because I want to love Bigby for being Bigby. Cats are one of a kind creatures. For comparision, Bigby, as a barn cat, has no clue what to do with faux mousies. He sniffs them, pats them to make sure they won't move, and then is done with them. He has little interest in chasing something that isn't really alive. Balls, however, he relishes! He adores a ball trapped in a cat toy I originally bought for Josh's cat. We found a large rubber bouncing ball from my days at Googols, and he loves rolling it about everywhere in the kitchen. It makes the kitchen seem less lonely with him in it.
He's doing much better with the re-roofing of the apartment than poor Squirt is - Bigby doesn't even notice the noise, while Squirt hides a large part of the day. I've been discussing with Ben taking Squirt back home, at least till the roofers are done, but Ben pointed out that capturing him, taking him home, him having to re-adjust to home and the new cat there, and then recapturing him and him having to re-adjust here again - might be MORE stress. I thought about just taking him home completely after Gil died. Gilgi made the apartment home for Squirt, and I've been afraid that adjusting to a new kitten while still not being at home has been a lot for him to deal with. I hope Ben is right in that he thinks Squirt is doing okay, and will be fine once the roofers are done.
One characteristic Bigby shares with the Gilgamonster - he's insatiable for kitty food. Meiu, meiu! Share your chicken, share your pizza! Its dinner time, get in the kitchen nooooowwww!
Bigby was named after Bigby Wolf, from my favorite comic Fables. An appetite that just won't stop and a tendancy to sneeze hard enough to knock things over, finalized the name.
I've been looking for old photos of Gilgi, so I can base a tattoo design on one. However, I don't have as many as I thought I did. A few favorites here and there, and a few where I was taking pics of a dress and he wandered into the picture. I dispair of those I erased of him hogging the frame now. If I had known.... The kitten Gilgi makes me smile, but some of him as a teenage cat make me cry. He looks too much like what I just lost. Too soft, too shimmery, too graceful in form and face. Too him. But I need them to prove to the tattoo artist how special he was, and how I want to capture him as a part of me, a visable part of me. I want my skin to scream how beautiful he was. I've been sketching little forms of how the tattoo might be - him curled around the kitch faucet, playing with water - Gilgi reaching to pat a mousie - him leaping for a mousie I threw in the air. I even sketched a form of Bast holding him, but I want the focus to be on how special HE was, not anyone else. Maybe if it works out well, I would get one of Snoopy on my left leg, with my birthmark as her nose. Its triangular, and as long as it just grazed it, they might not have a problem with using it. Some doctors do, because if the birthmark changes shape or color, it might be an indicator of cancer. But both my birthmarks are inherited, and I've had them since I was born without change, other than growing with me. We'll see.
I'm going to Columbia tonight. I think I'm going to try to join the human race. I don't like them much, but if it means I can forget it for a few hours, it may be worth it. And I'll be in the company of friends.
Being in the kitchen and bathroom is hard. I keep waiting for a little grey paw to be thrust underneath the bathroom door, demanding to be let in. I imagine him sitting there while I put on my makeup, "talking" to me while I ask him how his day was, and I imagine him begging for food or asking for the kitchen faucet to be turned on or for a mousie to be thrown so he can race across the house, knocking over other cats in the chase for the prize.
I keep waiting for him to wake me up in the morning, his cold nose on my cheek. I wait for his weight in my arms or in my lap...
I think I've made some progress. For a week I couldn't even look at pictures of Russian Blues, and of course with him gone, I noticed them in advertising all the more. I ripped the picture of one from the packaging of a flea comb, because I couldn't stand to look at it. I threw away a receipt for mousies and kitty food, because I bought it for him, and he wouldn't be eating it. I'm glad the vet told us to feed Science Diet kitten food to Bigby, because automatically looking for fish based Friskies was killing me - Gilgi wouldn't eat anything BUT tuna, oceanfish, mixed salmon type foods. Its hard to break old habits.
The slow days at the Dealership are hard - when there's nothing to do, I have nothing else to think about but him. I'm glad I have to corner to myself to cry in.
I remembered a Sandman story, about a little girl petting a white Persian kitten that the mom's boyfriend had bought for her. The boyfriend couldn't understand why she didn't seem excited about the new $400 kitten - it was much better than the one he'd backed over in the driveway. She liked the kitten - it just wasn't her old cat. In a later issue, the story continues: Bast, an ageing goddess, hears the prayers of the little girl just after the accident, and with some of the last of her waning power, blesses the cat with death to deliver it from the pain. The goddess survives on bits of prayers and the love humans give to her animals. The ghosts of cats attend the her, swirling about her feet.
I wish I could demand my cat back from Bast. I know she's a kindly goddess to her feline followers, but I hate God and I almost hate her for taking him from me. I don't think I've ever prayed so much and so hard in my life. I don't know who I'm praying to, but I hope they get the idea - take care of him. And give him back someday. Keep me from having day and nightmares. Re-living that night drives me insane. Keep my other cats safe. I can't take another replay of this incident.
Bigy, the kitten my Uncle Randy gave me, helps a lot. Kittens are healing balm for the soul. He bounces wildly around the house, climbs to the top of the fridge, (and then can't get down - something I was waiting for Gilgi to discover), pesters Squirt by jumping on his tail and chasing him around the house (which sometimes annoys Squirt, and sometimes he likes). He backflips and tumbles and runs into walls and falls off the bed. And after he tires out, he crawls into your lap to snooze and cuddle. He's so soft, just like Gilgi was. Sometimes while I pet him, I pretend I'm petting Gilgi. Not too often, because I want to love Bigby for being Bigby. Cats are one of a kind creatures. For comparision, Bigby, as a barn cat, has no clue what to do with faux mousies. He sniffs them, pats them to make sure they won't move, and then is done with them. He has little interest in chasing something that isn't really alive. Balls, however, he relishes! He adores a ball trapped in a cat toy I originally bought for Josh's cat. We found a large rubber bouncing ball from my days at Googols, and he loves rolling it about everywhere in the kitchen. It makes the kitchen seem less lonely with him in it.
He's doing much better with the re-roofing of the apartment than poor Squirt is - Bigby doesn't even notice the noise, while Squirt hides a large part of the day. I've been discussing with Ben taking Squirt back home, at least till the roofers are done, but Ben pointed out that capturing him, taking him home, him having to re-adjust to home and the new cat there, and then recapturing him and him having to re-adjust here again - might be MORE stress. I thought about just taking him home completely after Gil died. Gilgi made the apartment home for Squirt, and I've been afraid that adjusting to a new kitten while still not being at home has been a lot for him to deal with. I hope Ben is right in that he thinks Squirt is doing okay, and will be fine once the roofers are done.
One characteristic Bigby shares with the Gilgamonster - he's insatiable for kitty food. Meiu, meiu! Share your chicken, share your pizza! Its dinner time, get in the kitchen nooooowwww!
Bigby was named after Bigby Wolf, from my favorite comic Fables. An appetite that just won't stop and a tendancy to sneeze hard enough to knock things over, finalized the name.
I've been looking for old photos of Gilgi, so I can base a tattoo design on one. However, I don't have as many as I thought I did. A few favorites here and there, and a few where I was taking pics of a dress and he wandered into the picture. I dispair of those I erased of him hogging the frame now. If I had known.... The kitten Gilgi makes me smile, but some of him as a teenage cat make me cry. He looks too much like what I just lost. Too soft, too shimmery, too graceful in form and face. Too him. But I need them to prove to the tattoo artist how special he was, and how I want to capture him as a part of me, a visable part of me. I want my skin to scream how beautiful he was. I've been sketching little forms of how the tattoo might be - him curled around the kitch faucet, playing with water - Gilgi reaching to pat a mousie - him leaping for a mousie I threw in the air. I even sketched a form of Bast holding him, but I want the focus to be on how special HE was, not anyone else. Maybe if it works out well, I would get one of Snoopy on my left leg, with my birthmark as her nose. Its triangular, and as long as it just grazed it, they might not have a problem with using it. Some doctors do, because if the birthmark changes shape or color, it might be an indicator of cancer. But both my birthmarks are inherited, and I've had them since I was born without change, other than growing with me. We'll see.
I'm going to Columbia tonight. I think I'm going to try to join the human race. I don't like them much, but if it means I can forget it for a few hours, it may be worth it. And I'll be in the company of friends.