Conclusion and Beginning

Yesterday I went to a shelter that keeps all of the cats in rooms without cages (unsupervised!) and lets you wander the hallways and help yourself to the colonies of cats. So I'm pretty sure it was just like heaven.

In the kitten room, once I ascertained no volunteers could see me, I sat on the floor and piled five kittens into my lap and buried my face in them. It felt so good. I kissed every cat in the building and tried to force all of them to hug me (a few were simply not having it, particularly the older cats. Not much they could do about a kiss though.) I was like a wild preschooler, waking sleeping kitties, holding them improperly, dragging them from their food bowls, and maybe squeezing them too hard or petting too enthusiastically. Most of them liked it. I loved it.

I fell in love with half of them. I desperately wanted 6 of them. The front desk guy assured me that they were buy one get one free, so I'd only have to pay for 3 of them. It's a good thing Mr. Ashley was there because I don't think I could turn down free cats.

We went back this morning, kids in tow, and covered ourselves in kittens again.

We decided not to get a rebound cat.

We decided to get two!

This is Calvin Alexander. Sometimes Big Kid "accidentally" calls him Socks. He's tiny and fuzzy and sweet and a total wild maniac who climbs lamps, hangs from the side of my new couch, growls at the dog, gets into drinking glasses, and knocks things from tables:

 This is Indomitable "Dom" Diamond.  He came with the name Indomitable Dom because he was thrown from or hit by a car and almost died--we added Diamond because why not go full stripper name at that point? Mr. Ashley liked him best and then when we brought the kids, Dom immediately sat on Big Kid's lap when he sat down:

He rode home completely unconcerned (as Calvin stuck both paws out through the slats of the cat carrier and screamed), he has no opinion on the dog (who is really hoping to gain a friend somewhere in all of this), and is currently absolutely euphoric while leaning against Mr. Ashley in bed with the fan blowing in his face. He keeps kneading the memory foam mattress topper with his paws. 

So...that was completely crazy and poorly planned. 

But earlier when Calvin stopped wrecking shit and settled down on my chest for a nap, tiny little purring face tilted up at mine, itsy bitsy paws stretched out to rest in my neck, my heart felt pretty justified in signing up for this insanity. 

 Calvin has tried to knock all of this stuff down. All night long.

 One of Calvin's favorite past times is scratching kids, but who can blame him?

                           Dom is less photogenic but pretty in person, in a sweet, kind, solid way.

 Dom is a very nice cat. Even if he has the name of someone who might dry hump you or break your legs.

While this is certainly a decision I may regret in the future, it's keeping me happy and busy right now. Calvin is purring loudly on my shoulder as I type and that makes it worth the trouble he will surely be.

Day 3

"When we get a new cat, maybe we could name it Socks," suggested Big Kid, still Socks Clinton's biggest fan. 

So, that's something to look forward to. Or not.

I'd like to say I'm doing better but I've spent a good portion of my day plucking cat hair off of my pillowcase with tweezers and saving it in a folded up piece of tissue in a ziploc bag.

(Please don't tell my husband.)

I've also visited two cat adoption places, and am 95% convinced that getting another smallish black cat and pretending it's my old cat would be a perfectly normal and healthy thing to do. I saw one that would work at the Humane Society. It was a boy, but when I saw him all snuggled up sleeping, I thought, "That's close enough..."

They wouldn't let me hold the cats. I guess I don't blame them.

What's the consensus on rebound pets? It was a horrible idea when we did it with Murphy, but I had a colicky baby and a failing business, so a puppy was a stupid idea, period. I want something soft and fuzzy to love, but I'm afraid it will make me forget how it felt when she purred in my ear or tenderly sniffed at my eyelashes.

Also afraid that little fucker will scratch up my brand new couch. That wouldn't be cute at all.

Day Two

I think last night was the longest of my life.

I woke up hourly, wondering why I was awake and then remembering. During one of these wake-ups, I felt a soft vibration near my feet and my heart surged momentarily as I groggily thought, "Purring! It was a mistake!" until I realized it was a small portable fan and cried myself back to sleep. This morning Mr. Ashley tried to get the kids ready for school so I could sleep in but instead of sleeping I hid under my comforter and cried, wide awake even without my feline alarm clock.

I have dealt with grief before but this situation has a physical component--I miss her presence. When I would pick her up, she would put one paw on each shoulder and squeeze her cheek to mine like a human hug. No exaggeration--I would give up my car, unable to afford a new one, for just one more of those hugs. Just to know it was the last. My hands ache to touch her and I desperately would like to press my mouth to the top of her head for one more kiss and to smell her. My lap feels empty and it feels wrong not to have to crane my arms over a small buzzing lump in order to reach the keyboard. It's not only my heart, my body misses hers.

I go to the bathroom with the door ajar because she never met a closed door she didn't need to be on the other side of; no one opens the door now. I can finally go to the bathroom alone after all of these years of parenting, and it sucks.

The kids are taking it better than I expected, probably more aware of my own intense grief than they should be and giving me space accordingly. There was much crying when I broke the news. Big Kid kept saying things like, "She was an old girl. She had a good life. She wouldn't want us to be this sad," as he cried quietly and asked why life had to be so hard. At one point little kid was the one sobbing, and I thought Big Kid was handling it rather well and then he said in a simple, stunned and matter-of-fact way: "I don't really know how I'll go on without her." And I know how he feels.

little kid asked, tears streaming down his face, "What is that thing when people come back as other things? What is that called?"

"Reincarnation?"

"Yes. I hope there's that."

"Maybe so. Maybe she's being born into a new kitten body right now and maybe in a few months we'll meet back up."

"That's a nice thought, but no offense, pretty unlikely," Big Kid said.

"I don't know. We don't know how the universe works. Energy has to go somewhere. As you grow up, you'll meet people that you know were meant to be in your life, and will realize that they would have been placed there one way or another--that it was destiny for you to meet up, that you are drawn to one another. Maybe that's what it is. Maybe there are certain souls that we need and maybe we all seek each other out time and time again. I hope so."

"Or maybe her soul went up into the sky and she turned into a star," little kid offered. I could work with that, too.

Yesterday I interrupted Mr. Ashley's work day with frantic requests for her one white whisker, begging for private cremation, pleading for a promise that he would make sure our ashes were joined together one day. If I wasn't a crazy cat lady for not wanting to leave her to go to the beach house, I certainly am now that I have no cat.

I told him that I just wish I had taken more time to appreciate her and he chuckled and said no one has ever been more appreciated. That I lavished love on her daily and it would probably be fair to call her the love of my life, and that she knew this. I just want more time; I regret every vacation we took this summer because that was 18 precious days that I missed. I know that's absurd but that's part of grief, the what-if game. What if I could have 18 more days? Honestly, I'd take even 18 more minutes. I'd take one hug, one kiss, one pet, one minute, just one real goodbye.

I need to mop. I need to do laundry. I need to put away the litter box and food bowls. I need to follow up to emails and make important phone calls. I need to write my column. I need to crawl back into bed and stay there for a week but I hate it there now without her.

I know one day the pain will be further from the surface. But I really can't imagine ever finding another love like that and facing that fact is hard. I know I was so lucky to have experienced it but I feel like I will be a little bit empty forever now without her.

Thank you for your kind words and understanding, the sadness has been made more bearable by the support of the people around me. I promise we'll get back to normal (at least here) soon. My inbox is overflowing with people who want to give you stuff and I have some cool and happy things happening behind the scenes that I'm finally able to share with you. We'll get to it all. I just need a few days to sit here and wonder what to do.

Pearl

This morning we found the heart of my heart, our cat Pearl, under the bed, gasping for air and covered in urine.

There are truly no words in the English language (or all of the other languages combined) that could explain what this cat means to me. I have never had a friend so true, a love so consistent, or company as comforting. She loves me without expecting anything in return, the mere sight of me enough to send her into a passionate fit of purring and rubbing. She puts my children to bed every night, curling up on their feet to listen as I read them Harry Potter and then staying after I leave until they are sound asleep. She is my personal alarm clock, whether I like it or not, as she wakes me early each morning by rubbing her nose on my face and purring in my ear, using her paws to unearth me from the covers if I try to hide.  She snuggles the three of us before school starts, walking from chest to chest and rubbing her faces on ours. She is the very essence of love.

She is warm and soft and solid, light and sweet. To call her a pet would be gravely understating her place in my life--she is more than my best friend. To even call her my baby may be in error--I love her that intensely but appreciate her in a different way, a way that marvels at all she will give without expecting in return. She is my equal or maybe even my superior in this family, a place earned through her selflessness.

At the sight of her in distress, Big Kid gasped and burst into tears. I assured him everything was okay although in my heart I knew it wasn't. He believed me, though, and I envied that hope and trust. I couldn't wait 10 more minutes for the bus and asked them to wait alone, the fear I felt in doing so completely overshadowed by my fear for the small, gasping bundle in my arms.

At the vet they took her from me and promised to call. I was supposed to work at the yoga studio from 11-2 so I called the vet back and asked, if they were me, would they come to visit her before work? Praying for them to tell me that was unnecessary, that I could pick her up at 2, that she was looking great.

They said yes, if they were me, they would.

The uncomfortable and sympathetic front desk girl led me back to her and explained that I couldn't hold her because she had to stay in the oxygen tank.

There was my heart, in a tiny glass box, eyes unfocused, mouth agape. Unsure if she could hear me, I called to her and she didn't react. My heart plummeted. I called again, more frantic this time, and she turned her head, saw me and took a few shaky steps to press her face against the front of the box. I pressed my face back into hers, both of us divided by the cool glass, so close but never further away than in that instant. She laid down and looked at me, still gasping for each breath and I sunk to my knees and sobbed, keeping my face as close to her as possible, running my hands along the glass where she lay, murmuring about how I loved her and how she was my best friend and what a great life we've had and how it couldn't end like this, as random people in scrubs gingerly stepped around us. Telling her to not be scared, that she's a good girl, that all would be okay, we would be okay, that I need her--I really do need her. We need her.

I sat there, forehead to glass, fingers curled around the bottom lip of the tank, "Hey There Delilah" (a former favorite I never want to hear again) playing softly in the background, begging my closest friend to please stay here on earth until the vet finally brought me a tissue, helped me to my feet and led me into a small surgical suite (as his other less heartbroken customers waited) and explained her condition, went over some of the more mysterious points and offered a small beam of hope if we wait for the end of the day. He cushioned this by reminding me of her age, and that we don't want her to be in pain.

I didn't even make it to the car before slumping against a bank of mailboxes and crying my heart out.

And as I was sitting here typing out all of the above, trying to hold onto a hope I never had and every beat of my heart reminding me of her ragged breaths, the vet called and told me she was gone. After a flurry of phone calls, I sank to my knees and sobbed until I dry heaved and then lay there in abject misery trying to decide how to tell the kids; how to tell Big Kid that his best friend, one of his only friends, is gone forever.

Due to bad genetics, bad luck, and careless friends, I have dealt with death far more than the average person my age and yet nothing has hurt like this. Logically I know that she was a cat, but in my heart I feel like that makes our relationship even more amazing--that this strange little creature from an entirely different species and I loved each other like every breath depended on it for the last 14 years and now that is no more. She was the last one left to have lived in all of our houses, nuzzled all of our babies, sat on all of our couches, known our past pets, and been nearby for a lifetime full of laughter, crying, fighting, surviving and now she is gone forever.

I'm beyond crying now, my lungs too tired to draw in breaths deep enough for a sob, but my eyes just leak continuously--fat, bold tears racing each other to land on my chest, my neck and the front of my soggy shirt. I still smell a bit of her sickness, and although I know it's disgusting and irrational, I am reluctant to wash it away.

The house already feels 100x emptier, as does the place in my chest where my heart should be.

 (She sat on our new couch first, as she liked to sit on all new things first. I'm so glad she got to.)

How will I do life without her.

Naked Maids

"Mom, I'm not trying to be awkward but..." Big Kid started.

I was immediately all ears. In fact, I wish I could set my phone to auto-record any conversation that starts with "I'm not trying to be...".

"Okay. Go on."

"At the beach house? They had a channel called 'Naked Maids.'"

"Ahhh. Did you click it?"

"No!" He replied, completely insulted.

"It was probably pay-per-view. They have satellite television there."

"I'm just saying. It's a family rental. We are a nice family of four. Five, if you count Murphy but I don't know if you would. And to have a channel called 'Naked Maids'? It's just not right."

"True. You have to pay for that channel though or you can't see it."

"From their pictures they seem like such a nice family." He lamented.

"No, I'm saying that although you can see it on the guide because it's available to everyone who has satellite service for God knows what reason, if you had clicked on it--"

"I didn't!"

"I'm just saying that if you had, if anyone did, the channel would be unavailable until you called and gave your credit card number. So no children or families are being harmed."

"Except by the title."

"Right."

Papa Bear

We took the kids to a water park in Orlando this weekend to celebrate little kid's birthday.

Our room was on the 9th floor of the hotel and at one point we shared an elevator with a very big, gruff-looking guy--the type that probably doesn't have kids on purpose so I pitied him for sharing the small space with ours.

He got off on the 8th floor and little kid started to follow him out. I yelled, "Not you, Papa Bear, come back here!" (I don't know why we call him Papa Bear, I agree that it's odd) and the big, tough-looking man turned around to get back in the elevator.

"No, not you," I said, both of us turning red,"I wasn't talking to you." He gave a short embarrassed nod and walked away.

"Did he think I was calling him Papa Bear?" I asked as we all giggled a bit.

I still laugh every time I think about it.