(no subject)

[lady_individual]

I want my friend back NOW. He was supposed to live at least until he was twenty-one, not until he was seven--DAMNIT, IT'S NOT FAIR. He's supposed to be in my face, in front of my computer screen, meowing, pawing, stomping all over my keyboard, and with me. He's not supposed to be dead. Why the hell did he hide it? Why did he get sick right while I was gone? I only had one last day with him and he didn't even recognize me; he was too sick to care. I feel like I'm a bride whose groom died four years before the wedding. I thought I would go away to college, I would visit him whenever I could, and then I'd leave college and take him and his brother with me to a new apartment and we'd live together maybe forever. I'd get married, have kids, and he, and his brother, would still be there. I feel like part of my soul has been torn out--I can't imagine having another friend who was so wonderful, sweet, kind, fun, funny, and yet so amazingly independent at the same time. Is it wierd to think that I found my one true soulmate in a beautiful white and orange cat named Tommy? Before I met him I didn't even like that name; it wasn't exotic enough, it was too cutsie. Now it's the best name in the world. Not because of it in itself, but because it belonged and will always belong to him. I want him back. I'm lonely without him. I would give up half of my soul so that he could live with me forever. I love Fritz, but he's not Tommy. He doesn't seek me out to see me, he doesn't want to join me in whatever I'm doing. Tommy always did that. And I would do it right back to him. I tried to entice him down the hall to see and smell new things, I'd sit next to him if he gave me even the slightest of looks, I would pet him, stroke him, scratch his head, rub his belly, roll him over just to tease him. And when I teased him he would purr so loudly my hand would shake and I could hear him if I stood five feet away. I can't believe he's gone. I didn't feel like his owner; instead I wanted to be his mother, sister, and friend. I wanted to give him as much as he gave me, if not more. I wanted to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling--I did my best to decipher every twitch, sneeze, blink, and meow. I can't believe he's gone. I've had him with me since he was eight months old, when I was kicking him off the bed because he insisted on biting my toes. He was one and the same with this house--he was there when I got home, there when I left, when I woke up, and when I went to sleep he usually curled in the curve of my knees or next to my stomach. He sat on my homework, attacked my pencils and pens, pleaded for food (which he was gladly and consistently given) at the table, got hair all over my clothes, hunted my beanie babies and small pillows, drink from my cup, clean my fingers, slept on my lap, aggravated the birds, groomed Fritz, attacked Fritz, annoyed the dog down the hall, jumped into random bathtubs at random times, greeted guests, jumped for treats, came when I called (just as I came when he called), listen to the piano, drank from the kitchen sink, curled up in my rocking chair, chase down the once and a while fly, and be there when I was stupidly frightened of the dark. I think I was the most frightened when I woke up at one point during the night and was terrified because I thought I heard something from the other room. It was a couple of years ago, I think, and Nathaniel was below me on the bottom bunk, my parents are in the room just beyond the wall, and the first person I turn to is Tommy sleeping right next to me. At that time I regarded him as a watchdog of sorts; I was comforted by the fact that if he was asleep, then it was all right for me to sleep as well because it must be okay if he felt safe. But that one night I didn't care that he was asleep, I wanted him awake to confirm that everythingw as fine. Yet no matter how I prodded or pushed, he wouldn't wake up. I tapped him on his head, poked his stomach, poked his back, and still he slept. I don't think I could sleep for another half an hour after that; I was amazed that he wouldn't wake up. I guess at the time I might have felt slightly abandoned; I was terrified and my protector wasn't aware of it. And now he really has abandoned me, through no fault of his own. I'm a little antisocial. I'm nervous around people, especially people my age, because I don't know what to talk about. Often when I do open my mouth, it's to say something unbelievably stupid and then it's to say something even worse to cover for the first thing. I didn't have to talk around Tommy. All he wanted was to be petted and to be given attention--sometimes he just wanted to be there, and attention was unwanted. People say cats are aloof, I disagree. Or, at least, I disagree in the case of Tommy. I admire him. He knew what he wanted and he knew how he was going to get it. It was also easier for me. I loved him with my whole being and only talked when I was truly driven to speak my thoughts, not when I thought he might get hurt or insulted if I didn't. The first time I met him was in the animal shelter when we went to look at cats. We already knew we were going to get two cats (or at least I did...I'm not quite sure what my poor mom thought) because I had talked with my math tutor about it (she had six cats) and she had told me that it's better to have two cats because then they can keep each other company. In addition, siblings shouldn't be separated. It was chance that we were shown Tommy and Fritz first, but we knew they were perfect immediately. When the door to the cage was open, Fritz came out first and Tommy kept back. That's why Fritz became Nathaniel's cat--Nathaniel liked the cat who seemed the most confident. I don't think I cared either way at the time because all I wanted was at that moment was a cat and it didn't matter if it was black and white or orange and white. Then we brought them home and they wouldn't leave Nathaniel's room; they were far too shy of the new place. I think it only took them a couple of days, maybe a week at most, to get used to us. That section of the apartment was always their safety zone when they were frightened, up to this day, but they steadily grew more confident, finding nice, new places to hide like under my parents' bed, the stove, or the t.v. But what I really want to get to is when, a couple of days after we brought them home, we were all the room, all four 'siblings', Nathaniel, Tommy, Fritz, and I, and I picked up Tommy. I didn't pick him up in the proper way that cats prefer, I just picked him up around his chest, behind his front legs, and held him up to my face. You know what he did? He licked me. Right on the lips. It was the best kiss I've ever been given. Sometimes, if I had one of those long cat toys, he would chase me around the apartment for minutes at a time, long after Fritz had given up or had decided to wait for the perfect moment from under the dining room table. Often I would walk into the living room or a bedroom to find the two of them curled around each other in sleep. They were light and dark; Fritz is a big cat with black and dark gray stripes over a canvas of white, while Tommy was a slightly smaller cat with dark orange and light orange stripes over a similar canvas of white. They both had the same similar, beautiful muddy green eyes. I need Tommy. My Mom says I'm supposed to tell people, especially my friends, that he's dead, but how am I supposed to do that? "Hey, yeah...remember that cat of mine Tommy? He died. He was sick." You just can't bring that up in everyday conversation. And I don't want sympathy and I don't want ackward apologies -- I'm grateful for them, deeply grateful, but I just don't want to have the responsibility of informing people that my pet died. Because he wasn't just a pet, and you can't explain that in only one sentence. The only reason I'm typing all of this up is because I'm so tired. I cried a whole bunch on Monday when I learned that the blood transfusion didn't work and that he had died, and on Tuesday I was all cried out. I'm tired of wanting to cry, and yet not wanting to cry. At the same time I want to tell everyone I meet--look at me, my cat died: I think I'm dying. I don't even feel constantly guilty anymore--I just don't care. A week ago I would have been apologizing and explaining myself every other sentence about why I'm being selfish in writing this whole huge thing on a public journal, how I'm sure everyone else goes through the same thing when their pet dies, and goes through it even worse when a close relative dies. I can't imagine it being any worse. I know the fear of thinking I might lose my brother, my human one, I know the grief and regret of losing my Granny, the distant saddness that gradually grows when a great-uncle dies, and maybe that isn't all the grief that life can cause, but it's enaough. Any grief is enough; it's not a competition. It shouldn't matter if what is lost is a pet, a brother, a parent, a grandparent, a distant relative, a spouse, a child, or one's closest friend. I guess I am going on into explanations now. Damn. I thought I had finally lost that habit.

If you read this whole thing, or just parts and are now reading this, thank you. And when something like this happens to you, I hope that I can give you the same courtesty and kindess. Be well.

-Kate-