(no subject)
'Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast; no weakness, no contempt,
Dispraise, or blame; nothing but well and fair...'
Somehow, Milton always has a quote for what I'm feeling.
In a grander vein,
'Who shall see the clouds gather,
the heavens bending
upon crumbling hills,
the sea heaving,
the abyss yawning,
the old darkness
beyond the stars falling
upon fallen towers?
Who shall heed a broken ship
on the green rocks
under red skies,
a bleared sun blinking
on bones gleaming
in the last morning?
Who shall see the last evening?"
JRRT, of course.
My cat, Humbug died today. I could say that she was only a cat. I could say that others have suffered and will suffer (as I shall probably suffer) worse loses. I could say that she was very old. I could say that I should have been ready. But I won't (although it's true) and I'm not.
She wasn't just a cat. She was a companion who'd been with me since I was fourteen years old - and I'm nearly thirty-two. I had her company for all of my adult life. She saw me through two sets of public exams, several bouts of depression, and three-and-a-quarter degrees. When it was very cold, she'd crawl under the duvet with me - but only because I was still warm from the hot water bottle.
When we got her, she was a terrified kitten-teenager, about seventeen weeks old. She'd been abandoned in a shed as part of a litter (I'm typing blind as I write this because I can't see for the tears). Most of the litter died, but she survived. Very ill, it took the RSPCA so long to nurse her back to health that she was no longer a cute little bundle of fluff by the time she was ready for rehoming. At the RSPCA centre, no one way paying attention to her, but she played with us through the glass when we went over to look at her. Our first-choice kitten was taken, and I've never been so glad of serendipity.
We took her home, and my brother and I spent about half an hour chasing her round the sitting room, trying to get a collar on her. She was terrified of the noise her collar made against her water bowl, but knew exactly what you do with dogs - hiss and spit. For months, she wouldn't purr at all, and then, she would only purr when you were on the other side of the room. When she finally got up the courage to purr with a human next to her, it sounded like a light aircraft going overhead. Her purr never got less intense.
Over the years, she learnt first to tolerate and then to adore the dog, a cocker spaniel who was convinced that everyone loved her. When the cocker spaniel died, she was less impressed by the collies, especially Spottie, who regularly tried to herd her - it's a sheepdog thing. If this sounds like she was oppressed, don't believe it. She used to lie in wait for him on the stairs, with a pawful of claws. The dogs were (and in Spot's case, are) my mum's, while the cat lived with my dad for most of the time after the divorce, so she didn't see them all the time. My mum will be visiting this week (as will I), and Humbug would have loved the opportunity to bash him round the face once again. Spot will be so confused to smell her but be able to find her (he's blind, so this is even more confusing for him). Just over the weekend, I was joking with my mum about the craziness of taking them both back to her house in Wales (so my dad can go on holiday). Generally, it involves three hours of driving during which Spot tries to find where in the car the cat is - and in which the cat complains loudly about the presence of the dog. I know that I'll never experience that again, but I can't really believe it.
She shouldn't have survived kittenhood, not with some miserable fuckwit leaving her to die. When she was seven, I found a lump on her back. It was a particularly virulent form of cancer, which was later determined to be caused by the fluid they used a vector for vaccinations. There was a high chance she wouldn't survive. She did. In fact, of all our cats, she was the only one to survive into adulthood, let alone old age - a survival due in part to her preference for being stationary and therefore not crossing the road. About three years ago, she was diagnosed with diabetes, so we got used to chasing her round the house with needles. And about eight months ago, she was diagnosed with kidney failure. In old cats, this isn't unusual, and she was put on the special renal diet. Average survival is about 6-7 months, and she lived 8-9. So yeah, perhaps I should have expected it. I wasn't exactly surprised, but no, I didn't expect it. While technically frail, she seemed to me made out of old boot leather and pure will. Over the last couple of weeks, when I've talked to my dad, I've heard the same mix of happiness and kibitzing from Humbug as always. We always talked to her and she always talked back. She also learnt to smile, and I'd know when she was happy by the big grin.
In many other ways, she was the strangest cat. She liked smoked salmon (ha! expensive tastes) and prawns, but would turn down fresh meat. In her later years, she had anti-arthritis chews, and she preferred them hand-fed to in her bowl. But most curiously, her favourite food was cucumber - to the extent that she'd purr like a maniac and stand on her back legs for it. She loved books because she knew that I loved them (and therefore they smelt of me), and I've got a photo of her sitting in my box of unread books 'owning' a B5 comic.
I'm going home this week, and I was going home in part to see Humbug. I don't know how I'll deal with her not being there. I can't imagine a house without her - without a cat waiting on the bottom of the stairs for my dad to come home, without a warm lump in the bed next to me at night, without having to remember to give her her injection, without her coming through into the sitting room after supper and yelling until we pay attention. This is the cat who climbed on my dad's lap for his birthday - but only to walk over him to get to the last scrapings of the key lime pie. This is the cat who would bite me whenever I came home - only me, and only that day. In many ways, she was 'my' cat, and she had to bite me before forgiving me for leaving her.
She died sometime this afternoon. My dad had to come home early for a doctor's appointment. He found her curled up in the armchair in my room, still warm. As far as we can tell, she just went to sleep. It's a good way to go, better than any of our previous pets, and better than far too many humans. That was the chair that our cocker spaniel used to sleep on a lot, and, to cat senses, it probably still smelt of her. At that time of the afternoon, it was probably warm but not in direct sunlight. It's a good way to go, but I wish I could have cuddled her one last time, cwtched her up and told her that I loved her. I can imagine how the fur between her ears would feel, the precise twist of her head to rub her jaw against my hand.
Yes, she was a cat - just a cat. But she was also my friend, and my family, and the creature who saw me through so many years when I didn't know how I'd survive. On Mother's Day weekend, I sat on my mum's sofa in Wales, repellently ill with a stomach bug, and she crawled into my lap (pushing my work out, mind you) and just huggled me. In May, I came back from the US, and, jetlagged out of my mind and exhausted after a conference, fell into bed. She climbed in next to me. If I knew it was the last time I would see her, I don't think I would have ever let her go.
Farewell, dearling. May we meet again, where no shadows fall.
