I keep thinking about my cat, who was put to sleep yesterday. I post pictures of him on the internet and update my facebook status to commemorate him. It is ridiculous. Someone listen, someone listen, I seem to be saying. I had a cat, and he was my childhood, and now he's gone. He's gone and my childhood's gone.
It is a layered sadness. I am sad, simply, because he was wonderful and I loved him. I am sad because I nursed him to health as a baby, and then kept him alive as an elderly cat, tempting him once with formula and later with tuna. I am sad because I got this cat when I was 13, turning the corner from childhood to adolescence, cognizance, angst, and he died when I was 27, turning the corner from outlived adolescence and young adulthood into plain, pragmatic adulthood. What I'm trying to say is that he was my steward into adulthood.
I don't know, what does one say about this? He was my cat, and I loved him. He purred constantly, at all times, while eating and sitting and walking. We called him Little Purrbox. He was outgoing and sweet and simple. Always hungry, always happy, an easy friend.
Over the past few years I've watched my father grow old, get sick, and I've been trying to come to terms with his impending death, my certain future loss of him. My cat's death feels horribly like a harbinger. Don't go, don't go, I want to say to them. Please don't leave. Please, stop leaving.
You can't get them to listen, you know.
My parents are moving houses and boxing their belongings and this will surely be the last place they live, or one of them lives, or one of the last places. I can't shake the feeling that we're rounding the final bend.