October 16, 2007:
Skinny Bones
You’d think with all the practice I’ve gotten in the last couple of years, I’d be way better at losing pets.
Put another way, can I please go ONE FUCKING YEAR without losing a pet?
I miss my Skinny cat.
After the dogs, somehow I thought cats would be safer, that I wouldn’t be so utterly wrecked when they died, but I was mad about that cat and I’m just devastated. I think with Sugarfoot, I was really guarded at first, still getting over Herman. But with Skinny, I just gave in and loved him right away, and so now I’m just sick. I guess this grief is payback for all my years of thinking cats just weren’t quite as good as dogs.
[If you’ve visited in the last year (that’s the tiny little slice of time we got with our sweet guy) and took a picture of the cat without the bell, could you send it here?]
Sugarfoot’s being super sweet, and way more affectionate than usual, observing how needy I am, but as sweet as she is, she doesn’t treat me like Skinny did. She doesn’t immediately go all limp and fearless and loving when I pick her up, and just stare at me like I hung the moon. Which makes it sound like narcissism, and maybe it is, but when someone acts like you’re so utterly worthy of trust, you just feel so good and deserving and safe, yourself. And it also kind of makes it a thousand times worse when you let them down.
This is the shitty part of taking in a stray. He would get super antsy if he was indoors for too long (which he was that day, thanks to my going out of town; kind of makes me never want to leave home, not that it matters now…). He was an outdoorsman, so I guess I knew somehow he’d meet his fate on the road. But a couple weeks ago, I saw him actually stop and look both ways before he crossed, so I thought we were golden, at least for a while.
I can’t walk by the front door without looking for him on the porch. And I keep looking up for him in the kitchen. He’d always follow me down and stretch out on the floor while I made a snack or washed some dishes. This morning, I looked for him at the foot of the bed when I woke up.
I miss my boy so much.
I need to quit speculating about his death (Did he die immediately? Did he hang on, waiting for us to find him? What was he doing out there? Did the person who hit him even stop? Would it have mattered if he was wearing a collar?–another pitfall of the strays–we couldn’t keep a collar on him, so we finally gave up. Would this have happened if he hadn’t been cooped up all day? What if I had been home to call him? He always comes better for my voice. Why did I have to go to that fucking expo? Why did I have to leave? Was he still alive, still laying there, hurt, when I got home? And if he was, could he hear me calling him? Why didn’t I walk over that way when I was looking for him on Sunday? Did it hurt too much? Was he lonely? Was he sad? Was he confused? Was he disappointed? Why didn’t I love on him more before rushing out the door that morning?). After all, none of it matters. He’s dead and I was too late and I didn’t keep him safe and sound. There’s no fixing dead. Dead’s dead.
At least we found him. At least he wasn’t mangled or smelly or eaten up (thanks to the cold and rain) and I got to clean him up and dry him off and bury him with his things.
I’m having a hard time thinking about anything but my Skinny.
Ron says no more pets. He doesn’t want to get his heart broken anymore. I doubt we’ll be able to stick with it, but I certainly see his point. I can’t see loving another dog as much as my girls, or a finding a better cat than Skinny. His only flaw was his wanderlust, and that wasn’t really a flaw in itself–ugh. This helps nothing.
I want pictures if anyone has them. I’ve taken a million, but I’m so used to deleting half-ass digital pictures, that I only have a handful left. I thought I could always take mroe. I didn’t expect to only get a year of Skinny. But the universe is stingy. You can’t depend on anything.
