Thursday, June 19th, 2008
Power of prayer
I have not been handling Moses's loss well at all. This weekend has been a whole bundle of crying where crying should not be done, perimeter walks to spy a body, and terror during all the thunderstorms (Mo hates the rain). I gave up on taking my daily pictures for a while because they felt like such black holes anyway. Whenever I came close to having a good day, it would be ruined by nightfall. Monday night, my mom gave me a call to see how my day went, and all I could come up with was, "I can't stop thinking about him." We talked and cried for a few minutes, mostly about how we don't understand how this happened.
This could be a potentially controversial thing to say (if anyone ever read past the first sentence), but as there are two medical professionals in this family who have agreed, Mo acted as though he had some form of feline autism, if such a thing existed, which makes this all the more tragic. He was my baby boy who I desperately wanted to protect because something about him was just so unusual. We have had many cats, each with a perfectly distinct personality, but none quite so odd as Moses. He couldn't stand being held and would hold people out at arm's length (I will forever bear the scars he left on my boob the first time I discovered this tidbit); the slightest bend of a toe caused by the slightest breeze would send him flying off the bed; his interactions with the other animals were some of the most awkward run-ins ever witnessed, and they either avoided him because of his tendency to make uncomfortable or taunted him because of his exaggerated responses; he never left the yard, and you were almost always guaranteed to find him in one of his many nests he built around the house. A running joke was that he frequently disappeared into alternate dimensions because he could move as fast as lightning--one moment you were looking at him, the next he had slipped back through the smoke and would only emerge later when he knew I was going to bed. He was meticulously clean, with the prettiest, thickest fur, and was obsessed with sleeping nose-to-wet-nose, at least with me. Every now and then there would be a break in his social anxiety and he would sleep with others, but for the most part, he was my boy. Once an indoor cat, we were very reluctant ten years ago to allow him outdoors, but he was so timid that we knew he would never wander too far, particularly when he always had the spot behind my knees to sleep in. None of my descriptions probably seem unusual for a cat, but I know cats, okay? We all agreed that something was a little off with him, more so than usual.
Thus, it just absolutely breaks my heart that he has fallen victim to the outside world. I feel like I've failed him. He was my little buddy, and I was his protector, and I couldn't do it. We still have no idea what happened to him, but he simply has never been gone this long. I don't want to officially announce "ACCEPTANCE," in case he is shivering out there, wondering why I haven't found him yet, but personally I know I will feel better once I've accepted it. Today was the first day I didn't cry. I did expect him to skip across the driveway when I pulled in, or to be on his throne when I went into my bedroom, but I didn't cry when I realized he wasn't there. I've gotten used to referring to him in the past tense. This is always a horrible transitioning point when someone dies, being able to go from present to past. I am just going to assume that he knew it was coming and went to pass away in the woods, as cats are known to do. It doesn't stop me from puh-puh-puhing out the door when the thunder rolls in, but it does make it a little bit easier to get through the day. It kills me, because I always pictured him in the future--I was going to bring him to Ireland with me. He was going to be the key feature in my apartment, my house, my home. His green eyes went with my green eyes went with all of my furniture. Two green beans in a pod. But I am doing better right now. Not great--when there's not much else to think about, I think about him--but better.
I will say, I am horribly offended at the lack of sympathy from my friends, who have instead made cruel jokes about him being eaten, but on the other hand, I am foolish to expect any more than that. Wasn't it only four years ago that they were writing thank you notes from the foxes on our Lost Cat signs? Wasn't it the year or two before that that Kibby's final journey outside was featured in others' Spanish vocabulary sentences, like a source of comedy instead of tragedy? There are the kind people, the ones who call because they think they may have seen a cat that sort of looks like that, but I just always seem to surround myself with the ones who could give two shits. I know, I'm sure they think I'm being silly and overreacting. If that's the case, then add that to the list of how so few people know me very well.
In cases like these, I would wrap myself around Moses and wish someone would care about me the way he does. Without him around anymore, I don't know where to turn. No where but up.
Replies: 3 Comments
kage said at 01:13 AM, 6.19.08:
im really sorry :(
its always hard to lose something in your life that means so much to you, i wish i knew how to help
john said at 05:58 PM, 6.19.08:
the reason i didn't respond to your first post about this is because i really couldn't think of anything to say. I didn't want to be another person telling you i was sorry to hear about your loss. but i empathize, when someone who has never shown you anything but unconditional love is taken from you, it's a relationship thats impossible to replace. i hope that a miracle happens, nobody is more deserving of it than you
katie kerr said at 07:05 PM, 6.19.08:
i'm with john, i didn't say anything at first because i didn't know what to say and didn't want to sound like i don't actually care. i saw the signs at 4 corners a few days ago and after i had dropped off natalie i drove through chiltonville at about 5 miles an hour looking, just in case. :( i hope things get better.
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