It's been said that the smallest coffins are the heaviest.
But I don't have kids. Instead I am one of those people that has pets and calls them her "fur babies." I used to think those type of people were annoying until I became one.
I've always been more of a dog person when it comes to pets. With their always happy to see you attitude, waggy tails, and their insistence upon licking your face, dogs reflect more of my personality. Not that I want to actually lick anyone's face because that's just gross, but I do wag my tail quite a bit.
Cats on the other hand have generally terrified me. They don't scare me nearly as much as chickens do, but I think it's the claw thing. And the pouncing thing, and the stalking thing, and the long hair, and the... well you understand.
But three years ago a tiny fuzzy white head popped out from underneath a shed in our neighbor's yard and looked straight at me. It's mom was a stray cat that decided to have it's litter next door. Several days later my partner approached the cat and realized that the small white kitten was sickly. She took him to the vet and then proceeded to nurse him back to health in the guest bedroom of our home all without me knowing it. She knows I am not a cat person.
But somehow the long-haired white kitten with bright sapphire eyes found his home in my lap, in my shoes, and in my heart. A stray no more. He let me carry him, sing to him, and even give him the moniker 'baby boy.' How he became mine I'll never know. Tina was the one who rescued him after all. Shouldn't it be her lap, her arms, her ice cream? Yeah, I totally shared my ice cream with him.
It was hot as hell in August when we found the little fluff nugget, but I gave him the name Winter; a tribute to the starkness of his mane. I also invested a ton of money into lint rollers.
At the time, we had just gotten our yorkie-poo puppy and the two became fast buddies. They would nap together, wrestle together, eat together, and even chase each other around in the yard. Winter was every bit the dog he knew I wanted him to be. He was even house broken and would come tell me when he wanted to be let out. Then he would jump onto the back porch and hang from the window sill meowing loudly to let me know he was ready to be let in. He never did master the 'just scratch the door' technique. The other night we didn't hear him asking to come back in. He did not come when we called for him, nor did we find him when we went out searching through the night.
The next day he showed up on the front porch and while I wanted to be upset with him for the angst that he had caused overnight, I was simply too relieved to do anything other than hold him. Later that day he became violently ill. Poison, the vet said. I held him one last time.
He was buried with red carnations (my heart breaks) in our back yard facing the window sill. I still find myself calling his name when it's time to eat, or I expect
him to greet me at the door with the other dogs when I come home.
Everyone grieves differently- some cry, some get angry, and some act as nothing at all has occurred; denial. And while I have run through all of the above aforementioned, some also write. I figured if people can have obituaries, then why can't my cat have a blog post written about him? Maybe that makes me a crazy cat lady, or maybe it just makes me crazy, but I don't care.
Three years of memories is not nearly enough, but I am grateful for those thirty-six months. For someone who was not supposed to be a cat person, Winter taught me to not judge a heart by it's Taxonomy.
Good night 'baby boy.' Mommy loves you.
