My cat died tonight. I think I need to say that out-loud a couple of times just so it sinks in.
I was running a basket of laundry back to the bedroom while Luke was not eating his dinner in the highchair. I passed Ben sprawled out on the living room floor. “Hi, Kitty.” I stopped two steps later. Ben hadn’t responded. His eyes were open but he didn’t look at me when I passed. The part of me that gets that he’s gone, got it right then.
I set down the laundry on the floor and laid a hand on his side. Soft. Still warm. Still not looking anywhere in particular. I slid a hand under him and he was limp. I checked for a heart beat and breath and I checked again. I laid him back down.
It’s weird the things that cross your mind. Kneeling there I thought, I shouldn’t move him. And then, Why? Because the police are going to come in with yellow tape? He’s a cat, Shannon. And there’s no evidence of foul play.
And there wasn’t. He was sprawled out on the floor, lounging like I would expect at this time of day. Most times of day, actually. Nothing had fallen. He didn’t look sick. Nothing looked broken. No blood.
In the kitchen, Luke was talking to his soup.
I’ve lost cats before. Quite a few over the course of my life. Car accidents and rat poison, Leukemia and kidney failure. Freak accidents and old age.
But Ben was young. Not that young, I countered. I did the math. Ten? Yes, ten years in May I think. I was in college. Someone found him in a field. My roommate brought him home in a dog kennel. He was terrified and shaking. Just a tiny little thing. He fell asleep on my chest purring while we all watched a movie.
Blindsided. I stood there and realized that something had to be done. I was home alone with my toddler. I had to deal with this somehow. I picked up the phone and put it down. I picked up the laundry and put it down. I curled Ben’s tail down along the back of legs.
There’s a practicality that kicks in somewhere. I can’t fall to pieces here. I’ve got a kid to shepherd through this and another cat prowling the house somewhere. I need to move him. I recalled that earlier I had been in the kitchen and heard Luke say, “Kitty sleeping too much. Kitty get up.” I called to him without putting down my knitting. “Honey, Kitty can sleep if Kitty wants to. Leave Kitty alone, please.”
When was that? Ben had been in the kitchen at some point in the last hour. Luke was sitting in the chair next to me drawing all over my knitting charts, and Ben had come in and murphed. I scratched his head. What order did those things happen in? How long ago was that scratch? Twenty minutes, maybe? Thirty? Surely no more than an hour.
He’s still warm.
I called my neighbors. They came over. One joined Luke in talking to his dinner, while the other sat with Ben while I rummaged around for a box in the garage to lay him in for the night. He’s a big cat. 18 pounds at last checkup, I think. I took his collar off and slid it in my pocket. I took it out and set it on the counter. I put it back in my pocket.
My husband comes home from a week long business trip sometime after midnight tonight, somewhere in that hour that doesn’t exist when the clocks roll forward. How am I going to tell him this? And what do I tell Luke? Do I tell him Kitty died? Kitty passed away? What the hell does that mean to a two-year-old? Kitty went to heaven? Do I even believe in heaven? Should I tell him even if I don’t believe it?
Ben’s body is in a box in the garage. Luke’s asleep. Shawn’s not home yet. I cleaned the living room and the kitchen. I paced in the kitchen and ate a few spoonfuls of ice cream out of the tub. What am I supposed to be doing? Take a shower. Stare at the wall. Have tea. What, knit? Watch Buffy? That seems wrong and it seems stupid that it seems wrong at the same time. And this whole rant doesn’t seem like it makes much sense. I put my hand on mortality tonight and it was still warm but very much not home anymore. What does that mean?