Nimble Kitty Balance

The morning of our 6th wedding anniversary, we woke to find our kitty, Turtle, dead beside the bed. She was a sweet cat, a good girl who just wanted to be loved. And a soft place to sleep. After we buried her and read a Psalm and wished her happiness on her next stop, we took a drive to the Whiskeag to think and write a bit, to smell the salt and mud, and feel the breeze through the dry, autumn leaves as it rustled its way up to Merrymeeting Bay.

I know it doesn't do to speak ill of the dead but Turtle had a few annoying habits that sometimes got the better of us. She had a compulsion for chewing plastic bags. All the time, we would try to be good dubies and wash out our ziplocs, only to find the corners chewed in the morning before they'd even dried. Any shopping bag left within reach was fair game. As a kitten, she would hide behind the books on the bookshelf, frequently knocking them off onto the floor. She never really had her proper share of that nimble kitty balance. These may seem like small things but some days you just don't want to hear that chewing noise as you sip your coffee. Still, I could have been more tolerant. Sometimes I'd shout. I regret that now.

Losing a pet is sad, of course. But also disorienting. I'd never held a dead anything in my arms. I wrapped her in a soft towel and picked her up and all at once a big, unexpected sob rolled out of me. Sitting down, I talked to her a bit. Her litter mate, Bug, came over, clearly concerned and wanting to check out the problem. This only made me cry harder, imagining his distress, she unable to receive his concern. Worries flooded my brain- had she been in pain, was there something we could or should have done, where had her kitty spirit gone? Thinking about her making that passage alone was devastating. But most of all, I wondered (and still do) did we give her enough? Love, attention, affection, time? Now that she's gone, it seems to matter so much more than when I was simply aggravated with cleaning the cat box or the endless giant fur balls rolling across the floor no matter how often we vacuumed. Now that there is no more time to give her what she needed, I am just not sure. I am wrecked at the thought of her laying in that cold dirt by herself and all the lost moments when I could have been better to her.

When we were kids, my brother had a dog. Squeegie. He was kind of anxious, chewed things when we were gone- things like baseboards and trim. This was not good for the dog, and not just because of the splinters and digestive havoc such a habit would cause. There was a lot of stress then. Maybe too few coping mechanisms. And certainly no places to bring a dog you could no longer handle. And so when Dad decided he'd had enough, Mom spent a day on the phone trying to find a home for the dog, pleading with everyone she knew to take him so he wouldn't have to be destroyed. Even as a 4 or 5 year old, I seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation. I understood the portent of those unsuccessful phone calls. Helplessly, I stood by & watched my mother hang up the phone a final time as her grief rolled down her cheeks. Later, Dad left with dog and came back alone. My brother came home from school and Squeegie was gone. My brother and I never talked about it- we were too young I guess. Later, we might have remembered that day together but I don't think we ever have. Perhaps we were afraid to bring it to life again. Instead, we silently carried on pretending not to comprehend the decision that had been made. Or maybe we've come to understand better how much more complicated these things are, that there are more ways to tell the story than just ours.

And yet, I know how the story sounds. It's horrifying by today's standards, a time when pets are confused with people (I'm guilty) and there are places to surrender an unmanageable (for whatever reason) animal. Back then, we didn't have non-kill shelters. We didn't have Craig's List. Telling it here, I run the risk of making my father out to be an ogre who could, without much compunction, destroy his son's dog, even in the face of his wife's great distress. But our dad was decisive, a man who took care of things for his family and didn't buckle under an unsavory task. And so what drove him to take action with the dog was also the thing that always made us feel safe in his competent hands.

Still, it's not a high point for him. I know this for certain. He knows it, too, which makes it even harder for me to think about. Even now, 35 years later, as his memory is destroyed by Alzheimer's, he remembers this decision. It eats at him. He can't stop fretting about it, telling us "I put your dog down", asking if he ruined our childhood because he killed our dog. The distress he can't shed over this is even more upsetting than the loss of the dog was back then. We all got over it and moved on. But his regret is a ghost that haunts him ceaselessly. Even if he remembers the context of it, he doesn't make excuses- the stress of parenting, the tightness of money, the bullshit endured every day from his boss. He only wants to know- needs to know- is there forgiveness? Always the answer is yes. Of course. But it is only half an answer when the memory doesn't stick. There is no reassuring him.

We are the stewards of our pets. We take on a responsibility for their care and love when we bring them home. They ask so little. They simply want our affection (& to be fed, of course). And yet it's so easy to be annoyed or impatient with them when we're tired and stressed. Until they are gone and there's no more time to give them what they need. Then a day comes along and we're forced to ask ourselves, did we give them enough?

It might sound crazy that every night since Turtle died, I have had a little weeping bout as the sun goes down and the earth cools, imagining her out there, just beyond the big living room window. Alone. Lonesome. Scared? I know it's silly- she's dead & I know it. But our connection isn't dead- not yet, anyway. And in her death, I seem to see & feel the future loss of Bug and our beloved dog, Jack. And my dad, who is disappearing from us incrementally every day. And so, when I wonder about whether I loved her enough, I am asking for them too. Have I loved you well enough? Because that regret, like the one that gnaws at my father in his sun-downing moments, is almost worse than the loss itself.