I'll never forget.
I am not handling Mosca's loss well. Not well at all. I hear her when I'm at home, the sound of her breathing, the sound of her paws padding across the hardwood floors, her little meow when really it's just kids outside, the sound of her mouth opening just before she gives herself a bath, and the sound of her paws hitting the floor as she leaves a piece of furniture to come join me in whatever room I'm using. I see her when I'm walking past my bedroom door, lounging on my bed like she always loved, until I step back and look again and see that it was only wishful thinking. I instinctively look for her every time I enter a room - any room. The living room - back of the couch. Dining room - her favorite chair. Office - my swivel chair (although I set up her own bed there). My bedroom - on the bed, or sneaking time to leave hairs on my pillow. So my house has become at once a loved and hated place. I feel she is here still, so I want to be here, where she seems to be, yet it's so hearbreaking to have to remind myself every 30 seconds that she isn't, so I want to leave, to go elsewhere. When I'm away, her absence seems less real, like she could just be waiting at home for me, as usual. I haven't yet broken the habit of cracking the front door open slowly to tease her, since she was always clamoring for attention first thing when I arrived. And then the house is empty. It smells different, echos differently when I walk in, and it feels colder. Lifeless. Unwelcoming and filled only with apathy. Until I sigh and settle into an activity and my undisciplined mind starts to expect her, and the haunting begins all over again.
Often people don't know what they have until they lose it. I can honestly and with joy say that was not the case with Mosca. The very first moment she ran up to me out of the darkness, skinny and dirty and smelly and crying for me to love her, I knew she was a blessing, a precious gift directly from God. Every day since in the past six years I have thanked Him for her over and over again. I knew I depended on her, I knew I'd be lost without her, and I knew I'd be a wreck when our time together ended. I just didn't realize it would be so soon. Last month a co-worker's cat died unexpectedly and I thought with fear what I would be like when I lost Mosca, but also with relief that she was young still and I didn't need to panic yet. I could continue to soak up all the love she had in her for years to come. I'm glad I didn't know.
I have always had a cat, since forever. Fat ones, skinny ones, mean ones, smart ones, and the occasional dumb one. I loved them all, but I always wished they were a little different. A little less cat-like. I used to reach out a hand toward a cat and wish against all hope that it would reach a paw back to me. I was always sad that they could curl up on my lap, but they'd keep their heads up rather than resting their chin on my forearm. But cats just don't do those things. Except Mosca. She loved to rest her chin on my arm (it seems odd to sit here and type without having to hold my right arm still for her) and every time - every single time - I absently stretched out a hand in her direction, she would always meet me with a little paw. She would often start it, in fact. She'd reach out a paw and grab a finger with her claw and drag it toward her just to tuck it under her chin. And I'm afraid I'll never have that connection again.
Apparently, time will heal me. But I feel that time is also dragging me further away from her. 1 hour ago, she was with me, 2 hours ago, 12 hours, 24 hours, 48 hours . . . further and further away. My world has narrowed into Before and After. The last time I opened this cupboard, walked through that door, picked up this book, she was still here. And each time I do one of those things, it's one less thing I have from Before.
I miss the sound of her purr, and especially all the sounds of her meow. I think she suffered a vocal chord injury as a kitten before she found me, because she had this bizarre little wailing cry that would startle anyone who wasn't used to it. It was almost like she never grew out of her kitten voice, but that it only got louder with age, rather than deepening like other cats. Yet she also had this quiet little chirrup sound that she made every time she jumped onto the bed or the couch or anything (she had to announce her presence). And I'll never hear it again. Why, oh, why didn't I record all her little noises?
She was so small. She never actually reached 7 pounds. She was an excellent hunter, deftly plucking birds from the air and mice from wherever mice happened to be, but she panicked and cried if Voodoo, the neighbor's demon cat, attacked her. I had to rescue her constantly from his clutches, and she never once fought back (are you happy now, Voodoo? Hmm?).
When I was sad, the best cure was to bury my face in her ridiculously soft fur. Now I'm sadder than I can ever remember being, and I don't have her to turn to. She was my safe haven, my refuge from the storm, and as I mentioned the other day, my first thing in the morning and my last thing at night. She was my girl. My little Mosca (Moesh-moesh, Moshkeda). The one being I loved more than any other. And now she's gone and I am lost. I won't allow myself to get another cat until I'm over it, because I would only be disappointed that she isn't her. That she doesn't rest her chin on my arm or reach out her paw to me. What will I do now without my Mosca?
Often people don't know what they have until they lose it. I can honestly and with joy say that was not the case with Mosca. The very first moment she ran up to me out of the darkness, skinny and dirty and smelly and crying for me to love her, I knew she was a blessing, a precious gift directly from God. Every day since in the past six years I have thanked Him for her over and over again. I knew I depended on her, I knew I'd be lost without her, and I knew I'd be a wreck when our time together ended. I just didn't realize it would be so soon. Last month a co-worker's cat died unexpectedly and I thought with fear what I would be like when I lost Mosca, but also with relief that she was young still and I didn't need to panic yet. I could continue to soak up all the love she had in her for years to come. I'm glad I didn't know.
I have always had a cat, since forever. Fat ones, skinny ones, mean ones, smart ones, and the occasional dumb one. I loved them all, but I always wished they were a little different. A little less cat-like. I used to reach out a hand toward a cat and wish against all hope that it would reach a paw back to me. I was always sad that they could curl up on my lap, but they'd keep their heads up rather than resting their chin on my forearm. But cats just don't do those things. Except Mosca. She loved to rest her chin on my arm (it seems odd to sit here and type without having to hold my right arm still for her) and every time - every single time - I absently stretched out a hand in her direction, she would always meet me with a little paw. She would often start it, in fact. She'd reach out a paw and grab a finger with her claw and drag it toward her just to tuck it under her chin. And I'm afraid I'll never have that connection again.
Apparently, time will heal me. But I feel that time is also dragging me further away from her. 1 hour ago, she was with me, 2 hours ago, 12 hours, 24 hours, 48 hours . . . further and further away. My world has narrowed into Before and After. The last time I opened this cupboard, walked through that door, picked up this book, she was still here. And each time I do one of those things, it's one less thing I have from Before.
I miss the sound of her purr, and especially all the sounds of her meow. I think she suffered a vocal chord injury as a kitten before she found me, because she had this bizarre little wailing cry that would startle anyone who wasn't used to it. It was almost like she never grew out of her kitten voice, but that it only got louder with age, rather than deepening like other cats. Yet she also had this quiet little chirrup sound that she made every time she jumped onto the bed or the couch or anything (she had to announce her presence). And I'll never hear it again. Why, oh, why didn't I record all her little noises?
She was so small. She never actually reached 7 pounds. She was an excellent hunter, deftly plucking birds from the air and mice from wherever mice happened to be, but she panicked and cried if Voodoo, the neighbor's demon cat, attacked her. I had to rescue her constantly from his clutches, and she never once fought back (are you happy now, Voodoo? Hmm?).
When I was sad, the best cure was to bury my face in her ridiculously soft fur. Now I'm sadder than I can ever remember being, and I don't have her to turn to. She was my safe haven, my refuge from the storm, and as I mentioned the other day, my first thing in the morning and my last thing at night. She was my girl. My little Mosca (Moesh-moesh, Moshkeda). The one being I loved more than any other. And now she's gone and I am lost. I won't allow myself to get another cat until I'm over it, because I would only be disappointed that she isn't her. That she doesn't rest her chin on my arm or reach out her paw to me. What will I do now without my Mosca?