Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Memories of Little Miss B

It's been less than twenty four hours since you died in my arms and I wish, oh how I wish, that today I felt better than yesterday. I find peace in the knowledge that although I don't feel a whole lot better, I do know you do. Your pain is gone, the suffering is over, and for that, I am overwhelmingly thankful. Being able to have a few more days with you, to care for you, to bring you comfort, to let you be where you were always happiest, is a memory I will always cherish. I don't want to remember you sick and frail, so I want to remember who you were for the nearly 14 years you were our little girl.

You are gone and you're not coming back. And that sucks. And it hurts and it brings tears to my eyes every single time I think of it. You won't ever come home but you are always here. Everywhere I look, I see you.

I went to the bathroom today. Alone. It has happened before, but not very often since you came home to live with us in 1999 (and even more infrequently after your baby (human) brother was born in 2008). I looked at the wall where you always rubbed your cheeks before you swirled right, then left, trying to solicit scratches and a gentle tail tug. The dark little mark is still there and although we usually wash the walls and wipe them away every couple months, I touched it today knowing that if I clean it away, it will never come back. I think it's okay right where it is.

Then I saw the drinking cup. Oh, God, how you drove me nuts with that when TroubleMaker was a baby. I'd no more get him to sleep and you'd go into the bathroom looking for a drink and knock it into the sink. BANG! And the baby would wake up! Finally, we broke that habit by keeping the en suite door closed... That is, until we realized something was wrong a week and a half ago. Then I was so desperate to get you to drink, I cupped water in my hand and encouraged you to drink; even if it was 3 in the morning. After we found out that you were going to die, I would have done anything to have you drink from that sink.

And the toothbrushes! Do you remember when we picked you up from Grammy's after Daddy and I went to Texas? I left my travelling toothbrush out and came up to the room to find you chewing on it. That's when we figured out you liked to brush your own teeth.

Everything in that small bathroom reminded me of you. Toilet paper – how many rolls did you unravel in your years with us? But your favourite thing was to BITE the rolls and claw just enough holes in them that they were often left unusable. Oh, you silly girl, I'd say...

This house, and the house before, has you imprinted all over it and that's what's making this even harder on me, on us, your family.

Your cat stand; I keep find myself wandering over to it, ready to give you a pet and ask you how you're feeling. I'm waiting to hear you jump down and start meowing at me because I forgot to put your food out. I keep waiting to hear all the sounds I'm used to. You were the most talkative cat anyone had ever met. I'll never forget when we were in the condo – the neighbours asking us, gently of course, if you were okay because you'd sit in the window when we took Max out for a walk and MEOW at the top of your lungs. It always made us laugh and when we moved, the same thing would happen. It was so you... Neighbours would try and talk to you through the window (to calm you down) and you'd only meow louder...

The fountain was running last night, neither your Dad or I can bear to unplug it. It's hard enough having you gone, unplugging your fountain just... Well, it will stay on a few more days.

When we got home last night, we left your crate in the Jeep. I think your Dad and I thought it might just stave off some of the sadness we were both feeling.

But in this house, filled with everything you, it will be a long time before the sad is all gone.  I love you, little girl. Sleep easy.

This is my way of dealing with the very emotional loss of our darling Bengal, Tsarina Jasmine (HappyKatz cattery). She passed away April 15, 2013 after a brief, but difficult and debilitating battle with intestinal cancer. She was my surrogate child for eight years (before and after the arrival of our son), for me, losing her, is like losing a child. I appreciate not everyone will understand my attachment and dedication to her. If you don't get it, please move on. I'm in no mood to deal with morons passing judgement on my life.

1 comment:

  1. I'm so sorry for your loss. My dogs are my kids, so I understand your pain and grief. Time will ease the gut-wrenching pain, and you will be able to think of HappyKatz with a smile.



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