Telling Thomas’ story could take an exceedingly long time. He was there at the beginning of our marriage, in 1996. He was still there when the last child left home to marry. I’ll try to be brief, but no promises.
A friend of our daughter’s cat had a litter of kittens. It was clear they wouldn’t keep them, so we had to take him from his mother too soon. He was so small, but they told us he was the smartest in the litter, so he’s the one we chose to take home. They weren’t wrong.
I still remember what my wife said. “We’ll take the tiger kitty.”
That first night he kept us all awake, wandering about, loudly meowing for mom, milk, and his lost litter mates. He was so young we had to feed him Ensure, so small he’d fit in a coffee mug. So cute he became “the first cat I ever really loved”(TM).
At his peak, he weighed 18 pounds. When the vet lifted him out of his carrier, one time, he said “that’s one big cat”, but he was never “fat”. Last week, no longer able to eat, barely able to stand, he couldn’t have weighed 10 pounds dripping wet. I don’t think he suffered, but I don’t regret my decision to send him over the Rainbow Bridge. He would have suffered if I hadn’t.
I will miss him.
Throughout his life he was so unafraid of people that I feared it might be his undoing, some day. People aren’t nearly as nice as Thomas thought they are. But maybe I’m wrong, because anyone who met him wanted nothing more than to pet him. It was amazing how he’d charm them. Our neighbors would mention that they’d left the front door open (in Southern CA this happens a lot) and “Thomas came to visit”. He’d walk right in the door, looking not so much for attention as the company of people. We really did have to take him from his mom too soon, and sometimes I think he thought he was a people.
Mental images, thoughts, and memories of Thomas are racing through my head, right now, and not in chronological order.
Walking through our housing development with Thomas walking beside us, like a well-trained dog. Thomas fetching crumpled balls of paper once had me convinced he was the reincarnation of a beloved lab-mix I had named “Sagan”.
I remember:
Him walking right up behind a skunk, tail raised, and sniffing its butt, then walking away “unstinkified”.
Two dogs appearing outside the bedroom screen door one morning. Thomas sat calmly looking at them, then erupted in such a violent attack, it was the speed that astounded me, that left a torn and shredded screen door and two (big and) terrified dogs high-tailing to back home. Then there was the time he stood down a 100 lb Belgian shephard by simply arching his back and circling him. (Titus is a good dog.)
Taking Thomas and Allyson (get it? Tom Cat and Ally Cat?) on an all-night flight from the West coast to the East when I took my first job out of college, before 9/11, when there could still be 2 pets on one flight. Allyson, who I had charge of, spent the entire trying to get out of her carrier. I didn’t sleep a wink. Thomas, who my wife was responsible for, trusted his humans completely and slept contentedly the entire trip.
Then there was the night I pointed the laser poiner at a spot halfway between Thomas and Allyson. Their hips swivelled as then dropped their front legs to the floor, then “WHAM!”, attack! Only the attack ended in them butting heads. Forgive me, but all these years later that attack that ended with two dazed kitties sitting on their haunches wondering what the fuck just happened still makes me laugh.
Later, when the clowder grew (a story for another day) we began feeding the clowder wet food. Thomas didn’t eat with him. He just wanted to lick the empty cans clean, like he did when he was an only cat, every time I opened a can of tuna. “Come get your cans, Thomas” is something I’ll never say again.
There’s so much more I want to say, but I’m only going to say this. Thomas loved to be cradled in my arms like a baby, on his back. If you don’t think that’s significant, give it a go. Try picking up a cat and flipping him/her on his/her back, then cradling him/her in your arms.
I’ll wait while you put merthiolate on the scratch marks on your face, neck, and arms.
He knew I wouldn’t, couldn’t, hurt him. And I just made the decision to kill him. Because I loved love him, and I didn’t want him to suffer. It’s going to hurt for a while.
Goodbye for now, Thomas. You’re a good kitty.
If we aren’t reunited with our pets in heaven, it ain’t heaven and I ain’t going.
Tags: natural wonders
-
Amen.
-
Thanks, man.
-
-
I am so so sorry for your loss.
Again, there will be a time when you see him again. He is not gone forever. Cherish every dream that has him in it. And there will be some, as he says to you that he is OK.I think unification with your pet doesn’t have to wait. Heaven is the here and now, just like hell is.
I have a belgian shephard. They back down a lot. Rocket acquiesces to our 10 year old, tiny, slight runt-of-the-litter kitty. Cleo, small for even a cat, chases Rocket around the house. But his bark is very tough and people are immediately afraid of him.
I have been thinking about the suffering end of life, for animals and for humans. I think suffering is totally and absolutely unnecessary.
Cleo likes being on her back in arms too. She snuggles up against my breasts for warmth mostly, I think. Just fits herself right to me.
What law is it that says that energy never dies, that it just changes form?
-
Thanks, uni. I saw your comment in that other thread a few days ago, too. I think your “empathy module” is working just fine.
-
-
Sorry for your loss. Animals are cool.
-
I just read the comment in the other thread. I would likely have felt pretty much the same way you did were our positions reversed — but — I want you know that it certainly wasn’t lack of empathy that kept me away.
To the contrary, your story had elements that reminded me too much of something that still hurts so much that I don’t like remembering it. The combination of feeling sad about your recent loss and reliving my experience was too much for me. I couldn’t “speak” — the pain was too overwhelming — I had to run from it.
When I finally felt “calm” enough to handle trying to type a message — I felt obligated to explain the delay — which created a dilemma. I didn’t want you to know how badly reading your story affected me — didn’t want you to maybe feel badly about your story causing me so much pain — but I didn’t want you to believe for one moment that my failure to respond was due to any kind of callousness.
I won’t add to your present pain by telling the story and why yours brought back that pain.
I hope that just as I know that my story would make you sad and add to your pain — because of my past experiences and knowledge about you — that you know enough of me to know that I couldn’t willfully and completely ignore yours or anybody’s pain.
Actually — I think I did tell you the story before — just probably without going into detail on the most painful parts.
My heart hurts for you. I know that even had my story ended differently — had “my baby” lived to make it to old age — I might have felt the loss just as badly because our short time together had made him very much “my baby.” I have never felt as much pain over the loss of any pet as I did with him — and I hope to never go through anything like that — again.
That happened in 1982 — but it still hurts as though it happened yesterday.
-
Well. I didn’t sleep. Maybe this is for the good — maybe life is giving me an opportunity to finally have somebody to grieve with. Perhaps if I share it — I can finally let him go and move on. I probably can’t make you feel any worse than you do — anyway. And perhaps you might even find something in it that helps you feel better.
I remember posting most of the story on Curtains. I may have even mentioned “my baby” — but I doubt that I went into great detail.
I lived near an old graveyard. One day — while passing it on the way home — a whimpering sound caught my attention and I looked over to where it came from and saw a bag with a little movement in it. I wasn’t brave enough to look — so I got a guy to check it out. There were 5 puppies in that bag — about 2 weeks old.
I took them home — with absolutely no idea how to care for them — and got on the phone trying to find some agency that would help. I could barely even get anybody to give me advice. I didn’t have money to pay a vet — and I couldn’t believe that none of them would even tell me what to do. The only advice I got was to try giving them Carnation milk from a bottle.
They were taking it — but I had a feeling they weren’t taking enough. At first — it did seem to be helping — they started walking and trying to play. Different people had already claimed two of them — ready to take them when they were older and eating on their own.
And then it seemed that they started to get weaker — again.
Now — I never did get around to naming “my baby” — I was satisfied with calling him “my baby.” The other four seemed to comfort each other — but My Baby would cry all through the night for me to pick him up and hold him. Every night he’d go to sleep in my lap. I’d put him to bed after a while — and he’d wake me up what seemed like not too long after. It was just like having a newborn baby that still had day and night mixed up.
I quickly bonded with that puppy and loved him as if he really was my baby. I think it was something about the way he seemed to “love” me as though I was his mother. I have never and probably will never bond with a pet the way I bonded with him. I adored that puppy.
One night he cried for me to pick him up — and as usual — I jumped up to get my spoiled brat. He got comfy — went to sleep — and never woke up. I sat there and watched him die — couldn’t stop it — in my lap. It was around midnight or so. I sat there with him in my lap — cried all night long — didn’t want to let him go. I guess I never did — really — because I can’t think of him and not cry.
I tried so hard to get them to eat — I stayed there with them — I wanted them to live. I had left my husband — had gone back to Louisiana with no idea how I would make it until I could find a job. I spent all of what little money I had on bottles and milk.
Nobody tried to help me — and nobody seemed to realize how hurt I was when “my baby” died.
After he died — I accepted that they were getting weaker — they were all dying — and so I called animal welfare to pick them up — and of course they were going to kill them. I don’t think my baby really suffered much — he seemed weak — but he didn’t really seem to be in any kind of misery. The other puppies were stronger than he was — but their conditions were deteriorating. I wasn’t going to make them suffer just so I could say I tried until the end. That wouldn’t have made me feel better — it would have made me feel selfish and cruel.
I don’t know. I don’t think leaving them in the bag in the graveyard would have been more humane. I’d like to think that they didn’t suffer while I had them — as I said — at first they seemed to be improving.
I hope I did a good thing by loving them for the 2 weeks or so that I had them instead of having them killed as soon as I found them. I believe my baby was better off dying in my lap than he would have been any place else — except for being some place where somebody could save him — of course. I’d hate to think of him whimpering for days and death finally being his only comfort.
It still hurts as though he just died. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to let go of that pain.
-
Thanks for sharing that story, peen.
I had something similar happen, but I was much younger, and it was rabbits. I was walking down a road on the edge of town and found a nest with 3 or 4 baby rabbits in it.
I took them home and tried to feed them milk, too, but I could only be there in the morning and evening, so they all died. I suspect they’d have been better off if I’d have just left them in the nest I found them in, but it was right next to the road. I mean, literally a few feet away from it, so I thought “mom” was probably dead, for some reason.
I didn’t “bond” with any of them, though. And I don’t think leaving puppies in a bag in a graveyard would have been the right choice for you, either. You and that puppy got to share your love for a little while. I’m going to believe that short life was far better than he’d have had in that bag. And I absolutely believe you did the best you could.
Sometimes our best isn’t good enough. That’s hard for me to accept, too, but I know I made the right decision about Thomas.
-
Thank you.
I think letting the tears flow and remembering even though it hurt so much to do so turned out to be a good thing — perhaps long overdue.
Once I was all cried out — I was able to think about the first time he stopped crying when I picked him up — and the many other times I picked him up — how happy and content it made both of us. He was fine playing with the rest of the litter — he just wanted to sleep with “mom.”
Maybe from now on I can mostly remember how adorable and funny and cute he could be — and not just the pain. After all — that’s what we do no matter the circumstances — remember the parts that gave us joy — because regardless of the length of time we have with anybody or anything — all living things die.
-
-
Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
9 comments
Comments feed for this article
Trackback link: http://www.timbuk3.com/discuss/wp-trackback.php?p=8086