For the love of cats…

I have had cats for 75.9% of my life, approximately.  My first cat lived from my ages of 5-25.  Every night I called her from my bedroom door, she obliged, crawled under the covers and rested her head on the pillow next to mine as I fell asleep.  If I cried, she came from where ever she was, and comforted me.  Though long gone, her sweet legacy lives on inside my heart.

When I was solo adulting, I went for a meet and greet with the two remaining kittens in a litter, left behind because one was the runt and the other aptly named ‘hissy-girl’ (except he was a boy).  How could I walk away from these two furry faces who were about to be deported to the pound?  I learned that the runt had more willpower than I have ever known any cat to have, and that hissy just meant afraid.  These two walked through so many stages of life with me, including buying my first house, getting married and having my daughter.  They left at age eighteen, within a couple of months of each other, when their bodies broke down.  On their last days, I spent hours with them on my chest having our longest, and final snuggle.  I thanked them for accompanying me on my journey thus far.  I could not have asked for better companions.

We were slowly coming around to the idea of getting kittens when we were alerted to a litter that needed homes.  One kitten looked exactly like our dearly departed tabby and we thought this might help to recreate the magic.  We then chose the smallest and quietest one, just like our former runt.  They couldn’t have been more different; one afraid of nothing, the other afraid of everything.  But I have never known two cats to love each other so much.  They loved to sleep in close proximity, often snuggled in each other’s arms.  They bathed each other thoroughly until it devolved into a boxing match with some pretty rigorous right hooks from the big guy who outweighed his sister by fifty percent.  I could see them watching out for each other, checking in with nose touches and the female, Bean, getting ancy if her brother, Simba, was outside for too long.

This summer we went away for a week-long vacation and in the middle of it, our neighbour who cared for our cats in our absence for all of their 3.5 years, let us know that she couldn’t find Simba one night.  He always came in, with a shake of the snack bag, so this was unusual.  And then the text, ‘call me’.  Right then, I knew.  Our neighbour sobbed as she told me that she and her husband had found him dead, no signs of trauma or any indication of what might have happened.  His poor sister, alone at home without him or us; we still had five more days of vacation.  As our return approached, I couldn’t wait to come home to see our girl, but I dreaded it too.  It was as hard as I expected.

All my previous cats gave me the gift of seeing me through the ups and downs of long stretches of my life.  I thought it would be the same with this dude.  It aches that he won’t see our daughter grow up. These little beings do a number on your heart.  They show you what unconditional love feels like.  And what it hurts like. 

I have heard that each pet you have reflects back a part of you.  Or maybe shows you what you can be.  Thank you Simba for being friendly with everyone, even if there is just so long you can maintain it (yup!), for loving your family mostest (uh-huh) , for always be up for a salty snack (that’s me) and for being fearless (still working on that one).