Farewell to an old, old friend
His birth was an accident.
Well, more accurately, his conception was an accident, as I suppose is true of most cats in the world. His mother belonged to my then-boyfriend, "JK," and she had managed to escape his apartment for a while one night. She returned impregnated, as we found out later.
The litter consisted of three kittens, two girls and a boy. All of them were completely different in looks. Their mother, Cali, was a calico. One of the girls was kind of an almost-calico, grayish with smears of orange and a tiny bit of white. The other girl was a traditional gray tabby.
The boy was black and white. As a kitten, his face reminded me a great deal of Sylvester the cat of Warner Bros. cartoon fame.
While we raised them, waiting for them to be old enough to find homes for, we gave them simple, descriptive names for the sake of reference. The tabby was Stripe, the almost-calico was Mouthy (because she talked all the time), and the boy was Patch. By the time the kittens were eight weeks old, I loved them all, but I had a special affection for sweet, playful Patch.
My grandmother had always wanted a calico cat, and she was willing to pretend that Mouthy was really calico, so she claimed that one. We had placed an ad in the paper, and JK had made an appointment for someone to come look at the other two. In the hour or so before the appointment time, I begged him to take Patch out of the running and keep him, but he was adamant. All the kittens were going away. I retreated to the bathroom to cry private tears of grief, because it would have made him angry that I was crying over a kitten. After all, I already had a cat of my own, Dusty, back at my place.
When the appointment time arrived, a woman and her teenage daughter showed up to look at the remaining two kittens. Outwardly, I struggled to hold back my own emotions as they fawned over both kittens, and their mother, even though it was clear they were quite taken with Patch. In the course of talking with us about the cats, the mother suddenly looked sharply at me and demanded, "Have you been crying?"
Mortified, I gave a sheepish laugh and said something about how I had foolishly gotten attached to Patch. The woman seemed to take it very seriously.
I have no clear memory of how this was worked out - it was over twenty years ago, after all - but somehow it was decided that she and her daughter would take Stripe and Cali, leaving Patch with us. JK was okay with it, because Cali had always been kind of wild and unpredictable, and he was still going to be left with just one cat. I wish I knew the name of that woman, because I really owe her a lot.
Eventually, JK and I got married, and our household consisted of the two of us and our two cats. Dusty and Patch got along quite well, and it wasn't unusual for us to be awakened in the middle of the night by the sounds of them chasing each other through the house in play.
As much as I loved Patch, I had the closest bond with Dusty of any cat I have ever had. Dusty was sort of the perfect cat - always ready for a cuddle, never very irritating in his demands, and perpetually playful, like a kitten. Patch, on the other hand, tended to be "in your face" a lot; if he was on your lap, he wouldn't just lie down and accept your absent petting. He'd stand on your lap, meow in your face, and butt his forehead against your chin. He had a loud, plaintive voice, and people on the phone often asked if I had a Siamese.
Both cats, despite having a carefree life indoors with lots of love and care, dreamed of being outdoors where they could hunt. Their escape attempts were occasionally successful and not infrequently resulted in the delivery of a trophy to our doorstep. As unsavory as it was to deal with headless birds, the real worry for me was their encounters with neighborhood strays. Not much of a lover of conflict, Dusty usually returned grateful for safety, with wounds on his back end indicative of fleeing a fight. (A couple of times, I had to take him to the vet for treatment of abcesses on his rear.)
But Patch? When he came home from his unauthorized wanderings, he returned weary but satisfied, often bearing evidence of battles well-fought on his face and front legs. It became clear over time that when the two cats were engaged in play, Dusty was truly playing. Patch was training.
Dusty would play with anything at all, just like a kitten - a string, a stick, something he was imagining. Patch, on the other hand, had very specific plaything requirements. If he wasn't playing with Dusty, by which I mean chasing him or being chased as fast as possible with no regard to what got knocked off of tables or broken, then there were only two objects he considered toys. One was the plastic ring that is left when you twist off a cap of a plastic jug of milk. You know the kind I mean? Not the kind you pull off and are left with a curly plastic strip, but the kind where you have an intact circle left on the top of the jug.
Patch just loved those rings, as we found out when one had accidentally gotten left on the kitchen floor one day. Patch plucked it up with his mouth and proceeded to toss it, pounce on it, pick it up again, and stalked around the house with it in his mouth, meowling as though he were holding a live mouse.
The other object he treated this way was a plastic drinking straw. I have no idea why these things appealed to him so, but he played with them steadily until the last year and a half or so of his life. And usually, he played with them late at night, like eleven p.m. or later. Many were the times I was awakened by his warbling sounds as he paced through the darkened living and dining rooms holding his prize.
(history_gurl is my witness on this; there was many a late-night phone call between us that was abruptly interrupted by a sudden "mowwwwwwlllllll... mowwwwowwwwwwowwwlllllllllllllll," usually from about a foot away from wherever I was sitting.
"That cat is on crack," she would say, laughing.)
When JK and I divorced, he left Patch with me and Bladekid. Life for the cats went on pretty much undisturbed, no matter how rough things got during the divorce. It was sort of comforting how little the change in the family configuration seemed to impact them.
Dusty got sick when he was about eleven or twelve years old. The diagnosis was FIV - feline immunovirus. There's no inoculation for it and no treatment. He got thinner and thinner and weaker and weaker. My dad had died of cancer within the last few years, and this was like reliving the whole thing. Dusty's once cottony-soft coat coarsened and thinned; his skull could be clearly felt through the skin on his head. Petting him broke my heart, even though it still brought him mild pleasure.
When Patch would jump on my lap for attention, I found myself resenting his thick, well-kept coat and obvious good health. It was irrational and unfair, and I made sure not to take out my grief on him, but it was hard.
When it was clear that the whole of Dusty's existence was about suffering, I did the only humane thing. I left the vet's office sobbing, with my beloved Dusty wrapped in a towel, ready to be buried in my parents' backyard.
For a little while, I had to steel myself to tolerate contact with Patch. I still fed and watered him diligently, but I had to force it when I talked to him and let him sit on my lap. The hole in my heart began to seal itself as I realized that Patch was showing signs of grief, too. He was subdued, restless, and seemed to be slowing down. He was a year younger than Dusty had been, and definitely in the last one-third of his expected lifespan. Realizing all of this helped me to unlock my love for him again and let him back into my heart. Who knew how much more time I would have him around, after all?
Ha! If someone had told me he'd live to the age of 21, I would have laughed in their face.
In the next few months, we acquired another cat, a young stray who'd made the mistake of entering the yard next door and been attacked by my neighbor's Rottweiler. I rescued him, took him to my vet, and wound up nursing him back to health in a dog crate in my living room. Both his back legs were bandaged up due to dislocated hips.
The crate allowed Patch and the new cat to get to know each other without risk to either of them. Bladekid and I decided to name the new cat "Lucky," for obvious reasons. After a few weeks, he was unbandaged and able to walk normally.
Lucky wasn't a "nice" cat like mine have always been. He had an edge. He would play, but there was always a chance that he'd decide to get a little mean. I worried that he would bully Patch, but the old man always reached a point when he'd show Lucky that enough was enough. They arrived at a balance, and actual conflicts between them were rare.
Once, we started having a serious mouse problem, something that happens a lot in southern Indiana. Lucky was clearly a good hunter, but I noticed that Patch was coming up with his share of "look Mom, I got a mouse!" as well. I was all impressed with him, until I actually witnessed Lucky catching a mouse... and Patch taking it away from him, claiming it as his own.
In the last five years or so, I weathered several close calls with Patch. He was about seventeen when he hit a patch of ill health and stopped eating. Just getting medicine wasn't enough; he needed diligent nursing care. I switched him from dry to canned food because his ancient teeth and gums were in bad shape, and because canned food seemed to appeal to him more. At one point, I actually had to carry him to the food bowl to get him to eat. I was pretty sure this was the end for him, but he surprised me and everyone else by rallying.
When I decided to move to Portland, a 2200-mile trip, I spent a lot of time worrying about how it would affect all the pets, but especially Patch. At that time, he was twenty years old. There were people who suggested I should leave him with someone back in Indiana, but there wasn't really anyone I knew who would be willing to take him. And besides, wouldn't it be just as hard on Patch to be uprooted to a new home without me, the one person who'd been in his life from the beginning? I figured that he might not survive the move, but at least I'd be with him. So, I brought him along.
Amazingly, he weathered the grueling four-day trip pretty well, and even adapted to a new home without too much trouble. There were, admittedly, many incidents of peeing in improper places, which was hard for non-cat-person Solo to tolerate. And then there came signs that my old, old kitty was having serious issues. He seemed to be struggling with elimination, wasn't eating properly. One emergency visit late last year resulted in getting an antibiotic, which helped, but in January he was ill again. We determined he was in the early (!) stages of kidney disease. He got subcutaneous fluids and seemed to feel better in a few days.
About six weeks later, he was doing poorly again. He'd stopped eating again, even though he still acted hungry, and was clearly having defecation difficulties. I took to syringe-feeding him to keep him going until I finally had to take him to the vet again. More sub-cu fluids and a stool softener were indicated, and some special canned food.
He loooooved the new, highly expensive food. In a few days, he was eating very well and doing better all around. He was actually going up and down the stairs again and jumping up on our very tall bed. I solved the problem of really expensive food by starting to make homemade cat from from a recipe I found. He was eating it better than he'd ever eaten in his life!
But then, a couple of weeks ago, he began to slide downhill again. I knew that I could probably take him to the vet and get sub-cu fluids that would make him feel better, and then he would probably start eating again. But that would probably only last for a couple of weeks, maybe even a few days, and we'd be right back where we were now. And we frankly don't have the money for constant vet trips.
So, I tried to keep him comfortable. He kept asking for food but couldn't seem to eat once he got it, so I took to syringe feeding him. FYI, cats HATE THAT. I just felt like I should do it, because I know that starvation is a hideous, painful way to die. Eventually, I was even syringe feeding him water. At that point, I began to question whether I was doing the right thing. Maybe I should simply have spent the time holding him instead of forcing food and drink down his throat. But I just couldn't deal with the idea that he was slowing starving or dying of thirst.
Thursday, he took a serious turn for the worse, and all day Friday, I knew it was just a matter of time. I spent most of the day watching him, holding him, very occasionally giving him a little food or water. (The vet had told me that as long as he wasn't vomiting, it was okay to syringe feed him.) Once in a while, he would struggle to stand, and wobble his way across the room or to the little box. He tried to eliminate, but it just took too much strength, and he would fall over onto his side and lie there right in the litter. I would scoop him up gently and clean him off, placing him on a soft cushion and trying to keep him comfortable.
Friday night, he was still going, clinging to life as though twenty-one years just wasn't quite enough. I kept him on the foot of our bed, on a towel, and covered him with the rest of the towel because his poor little skinny body wasn't retaining much heat. Occasionally, he'd lift his head and seem like he wanted to stand up, but he couldn't. I would lay a hand on him, gently, because I suspected it hurt to be handled too much. At about ten or so, he vomited, and I knew it was time to stop trying to give him even water.
Solo went to sleep around eleven, but I stayed awake until after two-thirty a.m., keeping a vigil. I wanted to be aware and with him when the end came, but I couldn't stay awake any longer.
I woke up at five a.m. and found that Patch had finally left me, probably soon after I'd fallen asleep. He had survived a full seven months after the move, most of that time in good health for his age.
We dug a little grave in the front yard, which I marked with some pretty daffodils growing along the fence - pretty ones with orange trumpets surrounded by pale yellow petals. Today or tomorrow, I'm going to go look for a young peony to plant there, a bit of my home state to mark the continued life of the memory of this remarkable pet whose life spanned nearly half of my own to date.
As I struggle to cope with this loss, I find that the hardest part isn't just that he's gone. I knew he couldn't last much longer, and I'm intensely grateful to have had him around for such an amazingly long time. Even vets have been incredulous at his longevity.
The hard part really is that with Patch, another chunk of my life - a huge one - has died. My father died ten years ago, and now, so much of what I shared with him seems unreal, because only I remember it. JK died seven years ago, and took with him almost our entire life together. (I was astonished, when I planned his funeral, that nobody currently in his life was aware that he had been a big fan of Simon and Garfunkel. JK had owned numerous albums of theirs, but he had apparently stopped sharing that with other people. I felt almost as though maybe my own memories were lies.) Then a couple years later, JK's foster brother died unexpectedly, and then his father died of a heart attack.
Now, I am the sole keeper of events half- or inaccurately remembered. With no one to reminisce with about them, I have no outside confirmation that they even happened. And while Patch certainly wasn't capable of talking over old times with me, he was at least a concrete piece of evidence of almost my entire adult life. He was the last living link I had to the person I was when I was trying to find my way in the adult world, the last connection of that woman to who I am now.
When those who shared my memories are gone, does part of me go with them? If I can't fully remember things that happened in my past, what significance do those events retain? How much of life's meaning depends on shared experiences and the memory of those experiences living on?
I don't know the answers to those questions, and I expect you don't, either. While I continue to meditate on them, I'll just have to cherish Patch's memory, and all those memories that I have come to associate with his life, and love the pets and people who are still here to the best of my ability.
But it's still going to be a while before I can walk past the living room and not expect to see him sleeping on his favorite cushion.
Goodbye, old friend. I miss you already.
Well, more accurately, his conception was an accident, as I suppose is true of most cats in the world. His mother belonged to my then-boyfriend, "JK," and she had managed to escape his apartment for a while one night. She returned impregnated, as we found out later.
The litter consisted of three kittens, two girls and a boy. All of them were completely different in looks. Their mother, Cali, was a calico. One of the girls was kind of an almost-calico, grayish with smears of orange and a tiny bit of white. The other girl was a traditional gray tabby.
The boy was black and white. As a kitten, his face reminded me a great deal of Sylvester the cat of Warner Bros. cartoon fame.
While we raised them, waiting for them to be old enough to find homes for, we gave them simple, descriptive names for the sake of reference. The tabby was Stripe, the almost-calico was Mouthy (because she talked all the time), and the boy was Patch. By the time the kittens were eight weeks old, I loved them all, but I had a special affection for sweet, playful Patch.
My grandmother had always wanted a calico cat, and she was willing to pretend that Mouthy was really calico, so she claimed that one. We had placed an ad in the paper, and JK had made an appointment for someone to come look at the other two. In the hour or so before the appointment time, I begged him to take Patch out of the running and keep him, but he was adamant. All the kittens were going away. I retreated to the bathroom to cry private tears of grief, because it would have made him angry that I was crying over a kitten. After all, I already had a cat of my own, Dusty, back at my place.
When the appointment time arrived, a woman and her teenage daughter showed up to look at the remaining two kittens. Outwardly, I struggled to hold back my own emotions as they fawned over both kittens, and their mother, even though it was clear they were quite taken with Patch. In the course of talking with us about the cats, the mother suddenly looked sharply at me and demanded, "Have you been crying?"
Mortified, I gave a sheepish laugh and said something about how I had foolishly gotten attached to Patch. The woman seemed to take it very seriously.
I have no clear memory of how this was worked out - it was over twenty years ago, after all - but somehow it was decided that she and her daughter would take Stripe and Cali, leaving Patch with us. JK was okay with it, because Cali had always been kind of wild and unpredictable, and he was still going to be left with just one cat. I wish I knew the name of that woman, because I really owe her a lot.
Eventually, JK and I got married, and our household consisted of the two of us and our two cats. Dusty and Patch got along quite well, and it wasn't unusual for us to be awakened in the middle of the night by the sounds of them chasing each other through the house in play.
As much as I loved Patch, I had the closest bond with Dusty of any cat I have ever had. Dusty was sort of the perfect cat - always ready for a cuddle, never very irritating in his demands, and perpetually playful, like a kitten. Patch, on the other hand, tended to be "in your face" a lot; if he was on your lap, he wouldn't just lie down and accept your absent petting. He'd stand on your lap, meow in your face, and butt his forehead against your chin. He had a loud, plaintive voice, and people on the phone often asked if I had a Siamese.
Both cats, despite having a carefree life indoors with lots of love and care, dreamed of being outdoors where they could hunt. Their escape attempts were occasionally successful and not infrequently resulted in the delivery of a trophy to our doorstep. As unsavory as it was to deal with headless birds, the real worry for me was their encounters with neighborhood strays. Not much of a lover of conflict, Dusty usually returned grateful for safety, with wounds on his back end indicative of fleeing a fight. (A couple of times, I had to take him to the vet for treatment of abcesses on his rear.)
But Patch? When he came home from his unauthorized wanderings, he returned weary but satisfied, often bearing evidence of battles well-fought on his face and front legs. It became clear over time that when the two cats were engaged in play, Dusty was truly playing. Patch was training.
Dusty would play with anything at all, just like a kitten - a string, a stick, something he was imagining. Patch, on the other hand, had very specific plaything requirements. If he wasn't playing with Dusty, by which I mean chasing him or being chased as fast as possible with no regard to what got knocked off of tables or broken, then there were only two objects he considered toys. One was the plastic ring that is left when you twist off a cap of a plastic jug of milk. You know the kind I mean? Not the kind you pull off and are left with a curly plastic strip, but the kind where you have an intact circle left on the top of the jug.
Patch just loved those rings, as we found out when one had accidentally gotten left on the kitchen floor one day. Patch plucked it up with his mouth and proceeded to toss it, pounce on it, pick it up again, and stalked around the house with it in his mouth, meowling as though he were holding a live mouse.
The other object he treated this way was a plastic drinking straw. I have no idea why these things appealed to him so, but he played with them steadily until the last year and a half or so of his life. And usually, he played with them late at night, like eleven p.m. or later. Many were the times I was awakened by his warbling sounds as he paced through the darkened living and dining rooms holding his prize.
(history_gurl is my witness on this; there was many a late-night phone call between us that was abruptly interrupted by a sudden "mowwwwwwlllllll... mowwwwowwwwwwowwwlllllllllllllll," usually from about a foot away from wherever I was sitting.
"That cat is on crack," she would say, laughing.)
When JK and I divorced, he left Patch with me and Bladekid. Life for the cats went on pretty much undisturbed, no matter how rough things got during the divorce. It was sort of comforting how little the change in the family configuration seemed to impact them.
Dusty got sick when he was about eleven or twelve years old. The diagnosis was FIV - feline immunovirus. There's no inoculation for it and no treatment. He got thinner and thinner and weaker and weaker. My dad had died of cancer within the last few years, and this was like reliving the whole thing. Dusty's once cottony-soft coat coarsened and thinned; his skull could be clearly felt through the skin on his head. Petting him broke my heart, even though it still brought him mild pleasure.
When Patch would jump on my lap for attention, I found myself resenting his thick, well-kept coat and obvious good health. It was irrational and unfair, and I made sure not to take out my grief on him, but it was hard.
When it was clear that the whole of Dusty's existence was about suffering, I did the only humane thing. I left the vet's office sobbing, with my beloved Dusty wrapped in a towel, ready to be buried in my parents' backyard.
For a little while, I had to steel myself to tolerate contact with Patch. I still fed and watered him diligently, but I had to force it when I talked to him and let him sit on my lap. The hole in my heart began to seal itself as I realized that Patch was showing signs of grief, too. He was subdued, restless, and seemed to be slowing down. He was a year younger than Dusty had been, and definitely in the last one-third of his expected lifespan. Realizing all of this helped me to unlock my love for him again and let him back into my heart. Who knew how much more time I would have him around, after all?
Ha! If someone had told me he'd live to the age of 21, I would have laughed in their face.
In the next few months, we acquired another cat, a young stray who'd made the mistake of entering the yard next door and been attacked by my neighbor's Rottweiler. I rescued him, took him to my vet, and wound up nursing him back to health in a dog crate in my living room. Both his back legs were bandaged up due to dislocated hips.
The crate allowed Patch and the new cat to get to know each other without risk to either of them. Bladekid and I decided to name the new cat "Lucky," for obvious reasons. After a few weeks, he was unbandaged and able to walk normally.
Lucky wasn't a "nice" cat like mine have always been. He had an edge. He would play, but there was always a chance that he'd decide to get a little mean. I worried that he would bully Patch, but the old man always reached a point when he'd show Lucky that enough was enough. They arrived at a balance, and actual conflicts between them were rare.
Once, we started having a serious mouse problem, something that happens a lot in southern Indiana. Lucky was clearly a good hunter, but I noticed that Patch was coming up with his share of "look Mom, I got a mouse!" as well. I was all impressed with him, until I actually witnessed Lucky catching a mouse... and Patch taking it away from him, claiming it as his own.
In the last five years or so, I weathered several close calls with Patch. He was about seventeen when he hit a patch of ill health and stopped eating. Just getting medicine wasn't enough; he needed diligent nursing care. I switched him from dry to canned food because his ancient teeth and gums were in bad shape, and because canned food seemed to appeal to him more. At one point, I actually had to carry him to the food bowl to get him to eat. I was pretty sure this was the end for him, but he surprised me and everyone else by rallying.
When I decided to move to Portland, a 2200-mile trip, I spent a lot of time worrying about how it would affect all the pets, but especially Patch. At that time, he was twenty years old. There were people who suggested I should leave him with someone back in Indiana, but there wasn't really anyone I knew who would be willing to take him. And besides, wouldn't it be just as hard on Patch to be uprooted to a new home without me, the one person who'd been in his life from the beginning? I figured that he might not survive the move, but at least I'd be with him. So, I brought him along.
Amazingly, he weathered the grueling four-day trip pretty well, and even adapted to a new home without too much trouble. There were, admittedly, many incidents of peeing in improper places, which was hard for non-cat-person Solo to tolerate. And then there came signs that my old, old kitty was having serious issues. He seemed to be struggling with elimination, wasn't eating properly. One emergency visit late last year resulted in getting an antibiotic, which helped, but in January he was ill again. We determined he was in the early (!) stages of kidney disease. He got subcutaneous fluids and seemed to feel better in a few days.
About six weeks later, he was doing poorly again. He'd stopped eating again, even though he still acted hungry, and was clearly having defecation difficulties. I took to syringe-feeding him to keep him going until I finally had to take him to the vet again. More sub-cu fluids and a stool softener were indicated, and some special canned food.
He loooooved the new, highly expensive food. In a few days, he was eating very well and doing better all around. He was actually going up and down the stairs again and jumping up on our very tall bed. I solved the problem of really expensive food by starting to make homemade cat from from a recipe I found. He was eating it better than he'd ever eaten in his life!
But then, a couple of weeks ago, he began to slide downhill again. I knew that I could probably take him to the vet and get sub-cu fluids that would make him feel better, and then he would probably start eating again. But that would probably only last for a couple of weeks, maybe even a few days, and we'd be right back where we were now. And we frankly don't have the money for constant vet trips.
So, I tried to keep him comfortable. He kept asking for food but couldn't seem to eat once he got it, so I took to syringe feeding him. FYI, cats HATE THAT. I just felt like I should do it, because I know that starvation is a hideous, painful way to die. Eventually, I was even syringe feeding him water. At that point, I began to question whether I was doing the right thing. Maybe I should simply have spent the time holding him instead of forcing food and drink down his throat. But I just couldn't deal with the idea that he was slowing starving or dying of thirst.
Thursday, he took a serious turn for the worse, and all day Friday, I knew it was just a matter of time. I spent most of the day watching him, holding him, very occasionally giving him a little food or water. (The vet had told me that as long as he wasn't vomiting, it was okay to syringe feed him.) Once in a while, he would struggle to stand, and wobble his way across the room or to the little box. He tried to eliminate, but it just took too much strength, and he would fall over onto his side and lie there right in the litter. I would scoop him up gently and clean him off, placing him on a soft cushion and trying to keep him comfortable.
Friday night, he was still going, clinging to life as though twenty-one years just wasn't quite enough. I kept him on the foot of our bed, on a towel, and covered him with the rest of the towel because his poor little skinny body wasn't retaining much heat. Occasionally, he'd lift his head and seem like he wanted to stand up, but he couldn't. I would lay a hand on him, gently, because I suspected it hurt to be handled too much. At about ten or so, he vomited, and I knew it was time to stop trying to give him even water.
Solo went to sleep around eleven, but I stayed awake until after two-thirty a.m., keeping a vigil. I wanted to be aware and with him when the end came, but I couldn't stay awake any longer.
I woke up at five a.m. and found that Patch had finally left me, probably soon after I'd fallen asleep. He had survived a full seven months after the move, most of that time in good health for his age.
We dug a little grave in the front yard, which I marked with some pretty daffodils growing along the fence - pretty ones with orange trumpets surrounded by pale yellow petals. Today or tomorrow, I'm going to go look for a young peony to plant there, a bit of my home state to mark the continued life of the memory of this remarkable pet whose life spanned nearly half of my own to date.
As I struggle to cope with this loss, I find that the hardest part isn't just that he's gone. I knew he couldn't last much longer, and I'm intensely grateful to have had him around for such an amazingly long time. Even vets have been incredulous at his longevity.
The hard part really is that with Patch, another chunk of my life - a huge one - has died. My father died ten years ago, and now, so much of what I shared with him seems unreal, because only I remember it. JK died seven years ago, and took with him almost our entire life together. (I was astonished, when I planned his funeral, that nobody currently in his life was aware that he had been a big fan of Simon and Garfunkel. JK had owned numerous albums of theirs, but he had apparently stopped sharing that with other people. I felt almost as though maybe my own memories were lies.) Then a couple years later, JK's foster brother died unexpectedly, and then his father died of a heart attack.
Now, I am the sole keeper of events half- or inaccurately remembered. With no one to reminisce with about them, I have no outside confirmation that they even happened. And while Patch certainly wasn't capable of talking over old times with me, he was at least a concrete piece of evidence of almost my entire adult life. He was the last living link I had to the person I was when I was trying to find my way in the adult world, the last connection of that woman to who I am now.
When those who shared my memories are gone, does part of me go with them? If I can't fully remember things that happened in my past, what significance do those events retain? How much of life's meaning depends on shared experiences and the memory of those experiences living on?
I don't know the answers to those questions, and I expect you don't, either. While I continue to meditate on them, I'll just have to cherish Patch's memory, and all those memories that I have come to associate with his life, and love the pets and people who are still here to the best of my ability.
But it's still going to be a while before I can walk past the living room and not expect to see him sleeping on his favorite cushion.
Goodbye, old friend. I miss you already.
