Bittersweet
Once, when I was in third grade, I had to write a story for class. I wrote a biography of my cat, Spike. I wrote about how he was a four-week-old kitten when I got him from the neighbors across the street. Their cat had kittens and they were giving them away (four weeks premature, but I was only four years old myself, so I didn't know any better). I never knew why four was a lucky number to me; I thought it was random. Maybe not so random. I digress.
So the neighbors across the street were giving away their kittens. I went over and found the one I knew I wanted. He was black with green eyes, and one tiny white spot on his chest. Somehow I convinced my parents to allow me to bring him home (or maybe I didn't ask permission). But the oldest brother of the neighbors across the street held the tiny black kitten to his chest, and said, "You can't have my little Spikey." I said, "Yes, I can, that's the one I want." And so, his name was Spike. Back then I didn't really believe in changing anything's name; I thought it might be too confusing. After all, he'd been Spike for the whole four weeks of his life; who was I to change that?
Some people thought Spike was a silly name for a cat, but everybody thought Spike was a pretty extraordinary cat. More like a dog maybe. Or an angel. Do you ever think about your childhood and remark that the times you were embarrassed are the times you remember most clearly? I do. I wish I remembered lying on the couch with my cat purring against my chest as well as I remember being embarrassed. My point is, I once said to my brother that Spike wasn't a cat; he was an angel. My brother thought I was kind of retarded for saying that, but I stand by my statement.
My other embarrassing memory goes back to that biography of Spike I wrote for my third grade class. I said I was writing a story about my cat, and Rocky (a classmate) thought I said "my kid". Then he teased me about having a kid. I was mortified, but I don't know why. He WAS my kid. But he was my brother, too. Maybe that sounds more disturbing than poetic, but, that's how it was. I grew up with Spike. I have very few memories of a time he wasn't there. He was always part of my life; he's in every single Christmas picture; he wasn't just part of the family-- he made the family better.
As I mentioned before, Spike was only four weeks old when he came into our lives. We had to nurse him with a baby bottle and kitten formula. And I used to drag him with me everywhere I went. I guess because he was so young when he left his mother, he developed something of an oral fixation, so he would always kiss my ear whenever I picked him up. At another school, later on, I did another Spike-ography and mentioned that, saying "He thinks I'm his mom." But then I thought back to how Rocky made fun of me for having a kid, and I was embarrassed again.
There were other cats in my life growing up, but none of them lasted very long. They didn't affect my life the way Spike did. Maybe you had to know him, but, he really was the perfect cat. Everybody loves their own cat, but EVERYBODY loved my cat. He wasn't a "you have to be a cat person" kind of cat. He was hard not to love.
Spike lived a solid eighteen years. Every year was good. Every day was good. He felt sick only a handful of days out of his life. But unfortunately, he was sick. And even though I knew it had to happen eventually, I still can't believe it did. My mom and I were both out of town, but she called me on Saturday when she heard from my dad that Spike couldn't walk anymore. I knew it was getting close, but I didn't think it was that close. My dad wanted to put Spike to sleep every time he had diarrhea, so I guess I expected a certain degree of exaggeration. I got back from Mendocino on Sunday and left for Japan on Tuesday, so I figured, okay, Sunday afternoon we'll say goodbye and we'll do that unspeakable thing that no pet owner wants to do, but does it knowing that it's the right thing to do. It was okay to think about a day in advance. I figured he wasn't going to die in one day.
Of course now I hate myself for not going back one day early. My mom said that when she got home, he was pretty unresponsive. My boyfriend said that even if I'd been there, Spike wouldn't have known I was there. My mom said that she kept checking on him, and that she put a heat pad on him because his feet started to get cold, until finally she came in to check on him and he wasn't breathing. Logically, I know that Dan is right and that it wouldn't have made a difference. I had said goodbye before (but he got better since then). I just wish I'd been there, because if I had been there, I would have held my little cat child in my arms - no matter how unresponsive he might have been - and I would felt the last little breath sigh out of his little body. But I wasn't there, so I didn't feel it. And even though I think maybe it's best that I didn't see him lose his awareness, get cold, lose consciousness, lose everything... I still wish I'd been there.
I had to see him before the cremation, but maybe I shouldn't have. I hate that when I remember him, I see his tiny, cold, lifeless body lying in a box. I hate that every time I stop moving or thinking about something else, I suddenly hear my father's voice over the phone, saying "Spike passed away last night." Nobody should have to lose somebody they love that much.
But, that's life and there's nothing you can do about it. So I made a deal with myself that I would believe in heaven - temporarily of course - because it makes it just a little bit easier to think that I'll see him again one day. And every time I see him at rest in my mind, I make myself remember how alive he was - always - throughout my whole life. A few weeks ago I gave him a mouse for his eighteenth birthday, and as soon as he saw it, he had it in his mouth. He always loved catching mice, and birds, and lizards, and spiders. He had a swollen scar on his lip from the one time he tried to catch a wolf spider. And I remember how every time I walked though the door he stood up on the couch and ran over to greet me. Spike was a pretty extraordinary cat.
So tomorrow, I'll leave for Japan, and I'll start a new chapter. I'll start making memories from a time where Spike isn't there. It's bittersweet.
So the neighbors across the street were giving away their kittens. I went over and found the one I knew I wanted. He was black with green eyes, and one tiny white spot on his chest. Somehow I convinced my parents to allow me to bring him home (or maybe I didn't ask permission). But the oldest brother of the neighbors across the street held the tiny black kitten to his chest, and said, "You can't have my little Spikey." I said, "Yes, I can, that's the one I want." And so, his name was Spike. Back then I didn't really believe in changing anything's name; I thought it might be too confusing. After all, he'd been Spike for the whole four weeks of his life; who was I to change that?
Some people thought Spike was a silly name for a cat, but everybody thought Spike was a pretty extraordinary cat. More like a dog maybe. Or an angel. Do you ever think about your childhood and remark that the times you were embarrassed are the times you remember most clearly? I do. I wish I remembered lying on the couch with my cat purring against my chest as well as I remember being embarrassed. My point is, I once said to my brother that Spike wasn't a cat; he was an angel. My brother thought I was kind of retarded for saying that, but I stand by my statement.
My other embarrassing memory goes back to that biography of Spike I wrote for my third grade class. I said I was writing a story about my cat, and Rocky (a classmate) thought I said "my kid". Then he teased me about having a kid. I was mortified, but I don't know why. He WAS my kid. But he was my brother, too. Maybe that sounds more disturbing than poetic, but, that's how it was. I grew up with Spike. I have very few memories of a time he wasn't there. He was always part of my life; he's in every single Christmas picture; he wasn't just part of the family-- he made the family better.
As I mentioned before, Spike was only four weeks old when he came into our lives. We had to nurse him with a baby bottle and kitten formula. And I used to drag him with me everywhere I went. I guess because he was so young when he left his mother, he developed something of an oral fixation, so he would always kiss my ear whenever I picked him up. At another school, later on, I did another Spike-ography and mentioned that, saying "He thinks I'm his mom." But then I thought back to how Rocky made fun of me for having a kid, and I was embarrassed again.
There were other cats in my life growing up, but none of them lasted very long. They didn't affect my life the way Spike did. Maybe you had to know him, but, he really was the perfect cat. Everybody loves their own cat, but EVERYBODY loved my cat. He wasn't a "you have to be a cat person" kind of cat. He was hard not to love.
Spike lived a solid eighteen years. Every year was good. Every day was good. He felt sick only a handful of days out of his life. But unfortunately, he was sick. And even though I knew it had to happen eventually, I still can't believe it did. My mom and I were both out of town, but she called me on Saturday when she heard from my dad that Spike couldn't walk anymore. I knew it was getting close, but I didn't think it was that close. My dad wanted to put Spike to sleep every time he had diarrhea, so I guess I expected a certain degree of exaggeration. I got back from Mendocino on Sunday and left for Japan on Tuesday, so I figured, okay, Sunday afternoon we'll say goodbye and we'll do that unspeakable thing that no pet owner wants to do, but does it knowing that it's the right thing to do. It was okay to think about a day in advance. I figured he wasn't going to die in one day.
Of course now I hate myself for not going back one day early. My mom said that when she got home, he was pretty unresponsive. My boyfriend said that even if I'd been there, Spike wouldn't have known I was there. My mom said that she kept checking on him, and that she put a heat pad on him because his feet started to get cold, until finally she came in to check on him and he wasn't breathing. Logically, I know that Dan is right and that it wouldn't have made a difference. I had said goodbye before (but he got better since then). I just wish I'd been there, because if I had been there, I would have held my little cat child in my arms - no matter how unresponsive he might have been - and I would felt the last little breath sigh out of his little body. But I wasn't there, so I didn't feel it. And even though I think maybe it's best that I didn't see him lose his awareness, get cold, lose consciousness, lose everything... I still wish I'd been there.
I had to see him before the cremation, but maybe I shouldn't have. I hate that when I remember him, I see his tiny, cold, lifeless body lying in a box. I hate that every time I stop moving or thinking about something else, I suddenly hear my father's voice over the phone, saying "Spike passed away last night." Nobody should have to lose somebody they love that much.
But, that's life and there's nothing you can do about it. So I made a deal with myself that I would believe in heaven - temporarily of course - because it makes it just a little bit easier to think that I'll see him again one day. And every time I see him at rest in my mind, I make myself remember how alive he was - always - throughout my whole life. A few weeks ago I gave him a mouse for his eighteenth birthday, and as soon as he saw it, he had it in his mouth. He always loved catching mice, and birds, and lizards, and spiders. He had a swollen scar on his lip from the one time he tried to catch a wolf spider. And I remember how every time I walked though the door he stood up on the couch and ran over to greet me. Spike was a pretty extraordinary cat.
So tomorrow, I'll leave for Japan, and I'll start a new chapter. I'll start making memories from a time where Spike isn't there. It's bittersweet.