More BoyCat ramblings
I got a sympathy card yesterday from the emergency hospital that treated BoyCat over the past couple of months and on Tuesday night.
The day-shift vet who'd treated him a few times and the night-shift vet who put him down signed it, and there was an inked pawprint included that was labeled as BoyCat's. I assume they took the print before the pet crematorium picked up his body. I bawled like a baby when I saw it.
His death has hit me harder than any pet death I've ever dealt with, and it's taken a toll both mentally and physically. Today is the first day I didn't feel like hammered crap. I think my difficulty dealing with his death is a combination of a lot of things: my not-so-great circumstances in RL right now; his larger-than-life presence and personality; his attachment to me, which was stronger than I've had with any other pet. Much of the anguish comes from the suddenness and the circumstances of his death, some of which were preventable. And unfortunately, due to his condition, the end was not as peaceful as I wished it would have been. He was scared and panicky, and he trusted me to make it better, and I couldn't. I feel like I let him down.
But it helps to remember him and to talk and write about him. I realize that most who will stumble across this won't be interested, but it's therapeutic for me to write it. So feel free to ignore my ramblings.
BoyCat loved to sit in my lap, but not in the neat little ball that most cats wrap themselves into. No, he sprawled. If I was sitting on the sofa and he got in my lap, he eventually ended up stretched out along my chest and arm from my shoulder down, completely relaxed. Often, he would snore.
He ate paper but only certain kinds. His favorite was toilet tissue, and I regularly found half the toilet tissue off the roll and chewed on or the tissue still on the roll but gnawed on. He also liked kleenex and the paper that cash-register receipts are printed on. Weird boy.
He liked to lick my fingers. Usually, all I had to do was present them to him, and he'd go to town. Sometimes, he would also lick my nose if I stuck it in his face; in the morning, sometimes he would lick my face if he'd been sleeping next to the pillow.
He preferred drinking out of water glasses to drinking out of his own bowl or any other container intended for cats. I eventually just kept an old water glass on the bathroom counter and filled it up each day for him.
He usually was waiting for me on the bathmat when I got out of the shower. He thought it was his job to lick the water off of my calves and feet.
He was very territorial when it came to things he thought were his; he did not share well with others. He thought I was his, pretty much, and he thought the bathmat was his, and so when another cat would occasionally come and interrupt his after-shower routine, he would growl and hiss. Sometimes, he would chase the other cat away; sometimes, he would be the one to run off in a huff. He could be very dramatic.
He could catch treats in his mouth--not always but occasionally.
He would have made a great volleyball player: He could spike any toy you threw at him.
He was one of the most vocal cats I've ever had. He had several distinct chirping-type noises he made: one in greeting, one that invited me to pet him, and so on. Every time I go into my bedroom, I expect to see him on the bed and hear him "talk" to me.
It's going to get better, I know. It's already better than it was a couple of days ago. But it's harder than I ever thought it would be. We invite our pets into our homes and our hearts, and they leave huge, aching holes when they go. I guess it's only fitting that the hole he left is bigger than normal.
I know all of that was depressing and not very interesting to read, so here's something a bit more cheerful: a picture of BoyCat inviting me to rub his belly.
The day-shift vet who'd treated him a few times and the night-shift vet who put him down signed it, and there was an inked pawprint included that was labeled as BoyCat's. I assume they took the print before the pet crematorium picked up his body. I bawled like a baby when I saw it.
His death has hit me harder than any pet death I've ever dealt with, and it's taken a toll both mentally and physically. Today is the first day I didn't feel like hammered crap. I think my difficulty dealing with his death is a combination of a lot of things: my not-so-great circumstances in RL right now; his larger-than-life presence and personality; his attachment to me, which was stronger than I've had with any other pet. Much of the anguish comes from the suddenness and the circumstances of his death, some of which were preventable. And unfortunately, due to his condition, the end was not as peaceful as I wished it would have been. He was scared and panicky, and he trusted me to make it better, and I couldn't. I feel like I let him down.
But it helps to remember him and to talk and write about him. I realize that most who will stumble across this won't be interested, but it's therapeutic for me to write it. So feel free to ignore my ramblings.
BoyCat loved to sit in my lap, but not in the neat little ball that most cats wrap themselves into. No, he sprawled. If I was sitting on the sofa and he got in my lap, he eventually ended up stretched out along my chest and arm from my shoulder down, completely relaxed. Often, he would snore.
He ate paper but only certain kinds. His favorite was toilet tissue, and I regularly found half the toilet tissue off the roll and chewed on or the tissue still on the roll but gnawed on. He also liked kleenex and the paper that cash-register receipts are printed on. Weird boy.
He liked to lick my fingers. Usually, all I had to do was present them to him, and he'd go to town. Sometimes, he would also lick my nose if I stuck it in his face; in the morning, sometimes he would lick my face if he'd been sleeping next to the pillow.
He preferred drinking out of water glasses to drinking out of his own bowl or any other container intended for cats. I eventually just kept an old water glass on the bathroom counter and filled it up each day for him.
He usually was waiting for me on the bathmat when I got out of the shower. He thought it was his job to lick the water off of my calves and feet.
He was very territorial when it came to things he thought were his; he did not share well with others. He thought I was his, pretty much, and he thought the bathmat was his, and so when another cat would occasionally come and interrupt his after-shower routine, he would growl and hiss. Sometimes, he would chase the other cat away; sometimes, he would be the one to run off in a huff. He could be very dramatic.
He could catch treats in his mouth--not always but occasionally.
He would have made a great volleyball player: He could spike any toy you threw at him.
He was one of the most vocal cats I've ever had. He had several distinct chirping-type noises he made: one in greeting, one that invited me to pet him, and so on. Every time I go into my bedroom, I expect to see him on the bed and hear him "talk" to me.
It's going to get better, I know. It's already better than it was a couple of days ago. But it's harder than I ever thought it would be. We invite our pets into our homes and our hearts, and they leave huge, aching holes when they go. I guess it's only fitting that the hole he left is bigger than normal.
I know all of that was depressing and not very interesting to read, so here's something a bit more cheerful: a picture of BoyCat inviting me to rub his belly.