Phantom.
It's been a year since my baby died. I miss him every single day, still think I keep seeing him out of the corner of my eye. I've never loved anyone the way I love him, and I don't think I ever will again. He was special, a part of me.
We got him from my youth group leader at a Memorial Day picnic at her house. Her long hair cat had just had a litter of kittens, and he was the runt, the last one unclaimed. Tigger had died just a few weeks, maybe months before, and Precious was lonely, so we wanted to bring home someone to keep her company. He was tiny and unpleasant, a scared little thing who didn't like all this attention. Whenever we picked him up, he cried, meowing incessantly. We were going to call him Cry Baby because of it, but Eric noticed how the black mark on his face resembled the Phantom of the Opera mask, and thus we decided to call him Phantom. I liked that it started with P, just like Precious.
When he was little, he would sleep in my hair, just above my shoulder, with his nose either against my neck or in my ear. This didn't really change much as he grew up, except that he really grew up until he was too damned big to fit into the crook of my neck and would nearly suffocate me in his attempts to get comfortable. He always loved my hair and would bury his nose in it and just purr and purr and purr and purr. Jes had long hair, too, and when we lived together, he would sleep with her more often than not, partly because no one else (such as Keith or Precious or Misty) tried to claim her bed as well. He didn't much like confrontation and was more apt to throw a little tantrum or glare at you for doing wrong by him then stalk off than bully anyone out of his spot or demand that he got what he wanted.
He liked open doors. He wanted to be able to see everything. If the bedroom door was closed, he'd insist that we open it, but then he'd stay in the room, positioned someplace where he could see out into the living room. He liked high spots for the same reason, so that he could survey his domain. It was all his. All of it.
While I was still in high school, he would follow me to the bus stop. When I tried to get on the bus, he tried, too, a couple of times. Soon enough, he figured out that wasn't a good idea and that I would, later, come out of the same bus in the same place. He'd wait for me at the edge of the lawn every single day, more like a puppy in that respect than any other cat I'd ever heard about or known. Then he'd follow me home. He followed me everywhere, to the point that it was sometimes difficult to walk because he kept so close to my feet. It was never with an insistence for attention, but obviously just to be close. Even here, in this apartment, he was always waiting at the top of the steps for me.
When I would shower, he'd hop up onto the top shelves next to the shower where he could peer in and keep an eye on me. He'd fall asleep up there, then follow me out when I was done. Even when we lived in different apartments where he couldn't peek into the shower, he'd stay in the bathroom with me, usually curled up on the toilet seat or batting at the shadows on the shower curtain. When I took baths, he'd sit on the edge of the tub and relax with me.
When I went away to college, mom told me that he spent every night by the door meowing mournfully, waiting for me to come home. I remember mom holding the phone out to him when I called, and as soon as I talked, he'd start meowing at me, with some urgency in his voice. When I came home, he kept his distance for a while, comforted to see I was alive, but upset that I'd been gone for so long... even though it was only a few months.
He was raised as an indoor/outdoor cat because Pipersville was very rural and permitted us to let him outside without too much worry about cars. He had plenty of places to roam. When we moved to Warrington, we still let him out because we lived in an apartment complex fairly far removed from the main highway. There were other cats in the neighborhood, too, who did just fine, and he hated being locked in all the time. We used to play tag in the yard, just me and Phantom. I'd chase after him as he dared around, but he'd let me near enough to tap him. Then he'd hunker down, ready to pounce, and I'd dash off until he caught me. We'd go back and forth like that until we were tired of that game. It sounds silly, I know, but it was so much fun.
We'd walk down to Dairy Queen, and he'd follow. We'd get a small cup of vanilla ice cream just for him. He loved ice cream, and he loved pizza. He'd eat all the cheese off a slice of pizza then lick the crust clean. He wanted to eat whatever I was eating, no matter what it was. I'd sit on the couch and hold my plate or bowl up high, and he'd sit on the back of the couch and eat over my shoulder. While I was away, Eric taught him only to eat off of a spoon, and he never quite got back into the habit of eating right off my plate again, which meant I had to take turns feeding him and myself. It was annoying, but adorable. He even liked salads and lemon sorbet. He was a strange cat.
I'm sure his eating habits contributed to his size, but he wasn't ever a fat cat. Well, not until he grew older and lazier, stuck inside all the time. Even when he was his leanest, he was nineteen pounds, which is pretty huge for a cat. I've met dogs smaller than he was. It's what everyone noticed first about him, how huge he was. I always thought of him like Clifford, you know? He was the runt, but grew to be huge because he was so well-loved. I remember visiting one of his brothers, Jericho, and being surprised at how compact a cat he was. He'd been a bigger kitten, but he was a small cat, whereas Phantom was just a magnificent monster.
He let me pick him up and hold and cuddle him more than any other cat I've ever known. He wasn't a lap cat, but he liked when I held him. When he was younger, he'd set his paws to either side of my neck and squeeze as if he was hugging me. Even as he got older and stopped so obviously embracing me, he'd still pull at me with his paws to show affection in a sort of half-hug. He was always very affectionate with me, even if he'd sometimes seem reclusive with other people. He let me hold his, err, paw. Most cats don't like that, but he'd place his paw in my palm and let me hold his hand.
He drooled when he was happy. He'd leave wet spots in my hair where he buried his face. I used to pick on him, told him that the reason I got a cat instead of a dog is because cats aren't supposed to drool. He'd just drool on me some more, the brat.
He never really got the hang of mousing. (Neither has Misty, we've come to discover, as she'll bring us live mice from time to time.) I remember watching him chase some sort of rodent outside for a while. He would follow it, bat it around a bit, then pounce and hold it close. He'd play with it for a bit then set it free. It would run for dear life... only to be chased and pounced again. I have no idea what happened to the poor thing, in the end, but I'm fairly certain it was someone's pet hamster which had gotten loose.
When he wanted to be let in when we lived there, he was smart enough to come around to the back of the building to whine up at us... in the middle of the night.
He got into a fight there which was the first real scare I had with him. He got a really bad bite from which he got a lung infection. I had been sitting at my computer and noticed he hadn't moved from that spot for most of the day, which wasn't like him. When I picked him up, he was burning up. We took him right to the vet, who then told me there was a good chance he'd die overnight, but they kept him and managed his symptoms. The next day, after I'd spent all night worrying and bawling my eyes out, insistent that I loved him too much for him to die, we picked him up so he could recover at home. He had a hard time eating for a little while as his fever had been so high that he had blisters in his mouth, but he grew up strong and healthy after that. Next time I caught him fighting, I stupidly tried to break it up and ended up with cat scratch fever in my right wrist because he'd bit me so hard. I still have scars. I never tried that again, but he also never got so sick again.
He hated going to the vet and being in the car. While usually his meow, as an adult, was more a dry 'myeh' than an actual meow, when he was in the car (or in the bath) he'd howl as if we were torturing him. In the car, he'd try to sit at my feet... which made driving difficult, let me tell you. He had weird ears, where he'd get very heavy build up and lots of blackheads. It's probably weird that I miss cleaning his ears as much as I do, but it was one of the few things I did that were really maternal at all. He'd sit patiently while I cleaned one then the other, at least a few times a week. He trusted me.
I think that's why I still feel so guilty about his death. He trusted me to take care of him, and I did not do my best. I should have taken him to the vet earlier. Sure, the infection may not have been treatable at any point, but maybe it was. We won't know. I just miss him. Every day, I miss him. He was such a part of my life. He'd been there with me through so much and was often the pillow I'd cry on. He was my best friend. He was my baby. I still love him so very much. There's probably a lot more I could say, but I'm tearing up something fierce now.
On the bright side, Misty's come into her own over the past year. She's very comfortable being the only cat. While she still has some annoying habits, she's just happier getting all of our attention and no longer being 'the other cat.' Let's face it, that's what she was when Phantom was around since he was my baby, my beloved. It's been wonderful getting to know this new, comfortable Misty, even if I sometimes wish I were cuddling Phantom instead. It's only sometimes.
We got him from my youth group leader at a Memorial Day picnic at her house. Her long hair cat had just had a litter of kittens, and he was the runt, the last one unclaimed. Tigger had died just a few weeks, maybe months before, and Precious was lonely, so we wanted to bring home someone to keep her company. He was tiny and unpleasant, a scared little thing who didn't like all this attention. Whenever we picked him up, he cried, meowing incessantly. We were going to call him Cry Baby because of it, but Eric noticed how the black mark on his face resembled the Phantom of the Opera mask, and thus we decided to call him Phantom. I liked that it started with P, just like Precious.
When he was little, he would sleep in my hair, just above my shoulder, with his nose either against my neck or in my ear. This didn't really change much as he grew up, except that he really grew up until he was too damned big to fit into the crook of my neck and would nearly suffocate me in his attempts to get comfortable. He always loved my hair and would bury his nose in it and just purr and purr and purr and purr. Jes had long hair, too, and when we lived together, he would sleep with her more often than not, partly because no one else (such as Keith or Precious or Misty) tried to claim her bed as well. He didn't much like confrontation and was more apt to throw a little tantrum or glare at you for doing wrong by him then stalk off than bully anyone out of his spot or demand that he got what he wanted.
He liked open doors. He wanted to be able to see everything. If the bedroom door was closed, he'd insist that we open it, but then he'd stay in the room, positioned someplace where he could see out into the living room. He liked high spots for the same reason, so that he could survey his domain. It was all his. All of it.
While I was still in high school, he would follow me to the bus stop. When I tried to get on the bus, he tried, too, a couple of times. Soon enough, he figured out that wasn't a good idea and that I would, later, come out of the same bus in the same place. He'd wait for me at the edge of the lawn every single day, more like a puppy in that respect than any other cat I'd ever heard about or known. Then he'd follow me home. He followed me everywhere, to the point that it was sometimes difficult to walk because he kept so close to my feet. It was never with an insistence for attention, but obviously just to be close. Even here, in this apartment, he was always waiting at the top of the steps for me.
When I would shower, he'd hop up onto the top shelves next to the shower where he could peer in and keep an eye on me. He'd fall asleep up there, then follow me out when I was done. Even when we lived in different apartments where he couldn't peek into the shower, he'd stay in the bathroom with me, usually curled up on the toilet seat or batting at the shadows on the shower curtain. When I took baths, he'd sit on the edge of the tub and relax with me.
When I went away to college, mom told me that he spent every night by the door meowing mournfully, waiting for me to come home. I remember mom holding the phone out to him when I called, and as soon as I talked, he'd start meowing at me, with some urgency in his voice. When I came home, he kept his distance for a while, comforted to see I was alive, but upset that I'd been gone for so long... even though it was only a few months.
He was raised as an indoor/outdoor cat because Pipersville was very rural and permitted us to let him outside without too much worry about cars. He had plenty of places to roam. When we moved to Warrington, we still let him out because we lived in an apartment complex fairly far removed from the main highway. There were other cats in the neighborhood, too, who did just fine, and he hated being locked in all the time. We used to play tag in the yard, just me and Phantom. I'd chase after him as he dared around, but he'd let me near enough to tap him. Then he'd hunker down, ready to pounce, and I'd dash off until he caught me. We'd go back and forth like that until we were tired of that game. It sounds silly, I know, but it was so much fun.
We'd walk down to Dairy Queen, and he'd follow. We'd get a small cup of vanilla ice cream just for him. He loved ice cream, and he loved pizza. He'd eat all the cheese off a slice of pizza then lick the crust clean. He wanted to eat whatever I was eating, no matter what it was. I'd sit on the couch and hold my plate or bowl up high, and he'd sit on the back of the couch and eat over my shoulder. While I was away, Eric taught him only to eat off of a spoon, and he never quite got back into the habit of eating right off my plate again, which meant I had to take turns feeding him and myself. It was annoying, but adorable. He even liked salads and lemon sorbet. He was a strange cat.
I'm sure his eating habits contributed to his size, but he wasn't ever a fat cat. Well, not until he grew older and lazier, stuck inside all the time. Even when he was his leanest, he was nineteen pounds, which is pretty huge for a cat. I've met dogs smaller than he was. It's what everyone noticed first about him, how huge he was. I always thought of him like Clifford, you know? He was the runt, but grew to be huge because he was so well-loved. I remember visiting one of his brothers, Jericho, and being surprised at how compact a cat he was. He'd been a bigger kitten, but he was a small cat, whereas Phantom was just a magnificent monster.
He let me pick him up and hold and cuddle him more than any other cat I've ever known. He wasn't a lap cat, but he liked when I held him. When he was younger, he'd set his paws to either side of my neck and squeeze as if he was hugging me. Even as he got older and stopped so obviously embracing me, he'd still pull at me with his paws to show affection in a sort of half-hug. He was always very affectionate with me, even if he'd sometimes seem reclusive with other people. He let me hold his, err, paw. Most cats don't like that, but he'd place his paw in my palm and let me hold his hand.
He drooled when he was happy. He'd leave wet spots in my hair where he buried his face. I used to pick on him, told him that the reason I got a cat instead of a dog is because cats aren't supposed to drool. He'd just drool on me some more, the brat.
He never really got the hang of mousing. (Neither has Misty, we've come to discover, as she'll bring us live mice from time to time.) I remember watching him chase some sort of rodent outside for a while. He would follow it, bat it around a bit, then pounce and hold it close. He'd play with it for a bit then set it free. It would run for dear life... only to be chased and pounced again. I have no idea what happened to the poor thing, in the end, but I'm fairly certain it was someone's pet hamster which had gotten loose.
When he wanted to be let in when we lived there, he was smart enough to come around to the back of the building to whine up at us... in the middle of the night.
He got into a fight there which was the first real scare I had with him. He got a really bad bite from which he got a lung infection. I had been sitting at my computer and noticed he hadn't moved from that spot for most of the day, which wasn't like him. When I picked him up, he was burning up. We took him right to the vet, who then told me there was a good chance he'd die overnight, but they kept him and managed his symptoms. The next day, after I'd spent all night worrying and bawling my eyes out, insistent that I loved him too much for him to die, we picked him up so he could recover at home. He had a hard time eating for a little while as his fever had been so high that he had blisters in his mouth, but he grew up strong and healthy after that. Next time I caught him fighting, I stupidly tried to break it up and ended up with cat scratch fever in my right wrist because he'd bit me so hard. I still have scars. I never tried that again, but he also never got so sick again.
He hated going to the vet and being in the car. While usually his meow, as an adult, was more a dry 'myeh' than an actual meow, when he was in the car (or in the bath) he'd howl as if we were torturing him. In the car, he'd try to sit at my feet... which made driving difficult, let me tell you. He had weird ears, where he'd get very heavy build up and lots of blackheads. It's probably weird that I miss cleaning his ears as much as I do, but it was one of the few things I did that were really maternal at all. He'd sit patiently while I cleaned one then the other, at least a few times a week. He trusted me.
I think that's why I still feel so guilty about his death. He trusted me to take care of him, and I did not do my best. I should have taken him to the vet earlier. Sure, the infection may not have been treatable at any point, but maybe it was. We won't know. I just miss him. Every day, I miss him. He was such a part of my life. He'd been there with me through so much and was often the pillow I'd cry on. He was my best friend. He was my baby. I still love him so very much. There's probably a lot more I could say, but I'm tearing up something fierce now.
On the bright side, Misty's come into her own over the past year. She's very comfortable being the only cat. While she still has some annoying habits, she's just happier getting all of our attention and no longer being 'the other cat.' Let's face it, that's what she was when Phantom was around since he was my baby, my beloved. It's been wonderful getting to know this new, comfortable Misty, even if I sometimes wish I were cuddling Phantom instead. It's only sometimes.