sometimes life is... strange.
My eldest family cat passed away yesterday. His name was Zipcode, Zippy for short, because one of Mom's old co-workers found him under a mailbox as a kitten and brought him into the office where she worked to try to give him away. He knew Mom was a sucker for stuff like that.
Of all the pets we had in the house up until this year, Tracy and Zippy are the only two we've had so long that I literally can't remember a time before we owned them. Tracy passed away at New Year's and that was so, so hard, because she was my canine sister and Mom's best friend, whose calm and sweetness and unconditional love helped keep Mom grounded through a lot of hard stuff. But it wasn't really too painful to accept and let go of the fact that she was gone, because death of old age is the best possible death, and she had a really good life. She was our baby and we called her by her nickname "Pup" until the very end. It was always easy to remember her as a young thing, and that was good.
Zip we nicknamed our "old man," and we called him that for years, even when he wasn't that old. And in retrospect I realize that I did always think of him as old, as kind of crotchety but kind. He was our knowing and worldly cat who ran away twice and came back of his own accord both times. I remember crying when I was eleven because I thought he was gone for good the second time, but at two in the morning there came the yowling at the door. Our cats have always been indoor cats because we were afraid they'd wander away out of curiosity but that they'd have short memories and forget us and never come back. The other two probably would, Frosty and Harvey. But it was like Zippy just knew that if he could get out, he could explore the world for a while and still have a place to come home to. I know most people like dogs because a dog's love is easier to see; their adoration of their humans is all over their faces. But I think cats love, too, you just have to earn it, and there's a mutual respect involved that almost makes it like they know you better than even other humans do. And Zippy loved us. He loved Tracy, especially, because they grew up puppy and kitten together, while I was a toddler; there's a picture somewhere of the three of us in a big cardboard box. My animal siblings. Frosty was mine; I chose him at the pound and he was -- is -- my baby. Harvey is his own wild thing, but I think he likes our house and our family and so elects to continue letting us feed him. But Tracy and Zippy were my companions through nearly all of the process of growing up, and losing them is losing a large part of my childhood -- not material things but lives that were a part of mine, as I was a part of theirs.
I was home for Tracy's passing and that was good. It hurt. It hurt so much, but it was good because she was at peace and I could see that with my own eyes. Zippy just got in a bad way a couple of days ago and I only knew about that and about the subsequent euthanasia over the phone with my parents. It almost didn't hurt at all at first, but I had a night to think about it and now the time-delay's ticked over and I miss him already like an amputated piece of me. The thought that the next time I go home, he won't be there -- bowlegged and fat and arthritic and with his crazy benign mystery growth over one eye but still bright-eyed with recognition when he sees me -- is just wrenching. But Tracy was his buddy, and he was already old and in pain before the loneliness of being without her.
Just like her, he lived a long time -- and it was a good cat life full of rambunctiousness when he was young, disdain when he was middle-aged, and amused understanding when he was old; he got to explore the outside world on his own like he wanted to, but he always came home again; he licked the inside of many a used can of tuna, and he slept belly-up in front of many a heater. He was our old man.
Miss you, Zipster. See you again someday, maybe. Until then every orange tabby I see will make me think of you and me and Tracy playing in that cardboard box, and Mom standing by with the camera.
Of all the pets we had in the house up until this year, Tracy and Zippy are the only two we've had so long that I literally can't remember a time before we owned them. Tracy passed away at New Year's and that was so, so hard, because she was my canine sister and Mom's best friend, whose calm and sweetness and unconditional love helped keep Mom grounded through a lot of hard stuff. But it wasn't really too painful to accept and let go of the fact that she was gone, because death of old age is the best possible death, and she had a really good life. She was our baby and we called her by her nickname "Pup" until the very end. It was always easy to remember her as a young thing, and that was good.
Zip we nicknamed our "old man," and we called him that for years, even when he wasn't that old. And in retrospect I realize that I did always think of him as old, as kind of crotchety but kind. He was our knowing and worldly cat who ran away twice and came back of his own accord both times. I remember crying when I was eleven because I thought he was gone for good the second time, but at two in the morning there came the yowling at the door. Our cats have always been indoor cats because we were afraid they'd wander away out of curiosity but that they'd have short memories and forget us and never come back. The other two probably would, Frosty and Harvey. But it was like Zippy just knew that if he could get out, he could explore the world for a while and still have a place to come home to. I know most people like dogs because a dog's love is easier to see; their adoration of their humans is all over their faces. But I think cats love, too, you just have to earn it, and there's a mutual respect involved that almost makes it like they know you better than even other humans do. And Zippy loved us. He loved Tracy, especially, because they grew up puppy and kitten together, while I was a toddler; there's a picture somewhere of the three of us in a big cardboard box. My animal siblings. Frosty was mine; I chose him at the pound and he was -- is -- my baby. Harvey is his own wild thing, but I think he likes our house and our family and so elects to continue letting us feed him. But Tracy and Zippy were my companions through nearly all of the process of growing up, and losing them is losing a large part of my childhood -- not material things but lives that were a part of mine, as I was a part of theirs.
I was home for Tracy's passing and that was good. It hurt. It hurt so much, but it was good because she was at peace and I could see that with my own eyes. Zippy just got in a bad way a couple of days ago and I only knew about that and about the subsequent euthanasia over the phone with my parents. It almost didn't hurt at all at first, but I had a night to think about it and now the time-delay's ticked over and I miss him already like an amputated piece of me. The thought that the next time I go home, he won't be there -- bowlegged and fat and arthritic and with his crazy benign mystery growth over one eye but still bright-eyed with recognition when he sees me -- is just wrenching. But Tracy was his buddy, and he was already old and in pain before the loneliness of being without her.
Just like her, he lived a long time -- and it was a good cat life full of rambunctiousness when he was young, disdain when he was middle-aged, and amused understanding when he was old; he got to explore the outside world on his own like he wanted to, but he always came home again; he licked the inside of many a used can of tuna, and he slept belly-up in front of many a heater. He was our old man.
Miss you, Zipster. See you again someday, maybe. Until then every orange tabby I see will make me think of you and me and Tracy playing in that cardboard box, and Mom standing by with the camera.