Nov. 20th, 2017 11:54 am
Nine lives aren't enough
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muckefuckI confess that one of the reasons I'm ambivalent about going home for Christmas is my cat. Normally when I get in, he's at my feet within seconds meowing to be fed. The other day that didn't happen. I stood there, having put the food in his bowl, and called to him and he still didn't come. Then I burst into tears imagining him dead in some dark corner of the lower level. (He'd have been bewildered when he arrived a moment later if he wasn't so one-track when it comes to dinnertime.)
This isn't rational. He's fine. He passes every checkup with flying colours. The only concern is his teeth: The vets would like to pull a couple but I've vetoed it every time since it would mean putting him under general anaesthesia and there's always a chance you won't wake up from that. I don't see that it's worth the risk for something that's not a serious threat to his health.
It's an odd reversal, since in the past I've been disdainful of people being too attached to their pets. I would quickly shut down anyone who referred to me and Monshu as "parents". On the continuum of household dependents, a housecat is much closer to a fussy houseplant than even the most easily-cared-for child. We only had one dog when I was growing up but I remember at least half-a-dozen different cats.
But now I'm afraid to leave this one alone for too long. My recent trip to Pittsburgh was my first absence since two weeks after the GWO passed away (and my first trip to visit someone who wasn't family in at least five or six years). I knew I'd miss him, but I thought it would only be for the nightly companionship. I didn't anticipate having to suppress feelings of panic and a frequent desire to text the trustworthy neighbours checking on him daily for reassurance.
In the back of my mind, I guess I'm recalling that time when I was a child and while we were gone for a week (Colorado? I don't even recall any more), a favourite cat ate caulking and was dying excruciatingly until my father decided to cut his suffering short with a spade. We live in a big apartment containing lots of things he shouldn't ingest; he's already killed one rat in it. I've become fanatical about pulling things away from him and cutting any food I give him into mince lest he choke on it.
I'm not exaggerating when I say that losing him will be, in a small way, like losing Monshu again. We found him together. When I mock his whining, in my mind I hear Monshu doing the same thing. He gave our home a soul and so long as he's alive the dream of being together in it isn't totally extinguished.
This isn't rational. He's fine. He passes every checkup with flying colours. The only concern is his teeth: The vets would like to pull a couple but I've vetoed it every time since it would mean putting him under general anaesthesia and there's always a chance you won't wake up from that. I don't see that it's worth the risk for something that's not a serious threat to his health.
It's an odd reversal, since in the past I've been disdainful of people being too attached to their pets. I would quickly shut down anyone who referred to me and Monshu as "parents". On the continuum of household dependents, a housecat is much closer to a fussy houseplant than even the most easily-cared-for child. We only had one dog when I was growing up but I remember at least half-a-dozen different cats.
But now I'm afraid to leave this one alone for too long. My recent trip to Pittsburgh was my first absence since two weeks after the GWO passed away (and my first trip to visit someone who wasn't family in at least five or six years). I knew I'd miss him, but I thought it would only be for the nightly companionship. I didn't anticipate having to suppress feelings of panic and a frequent desire to text the trustworthy neighbours checking on him daily for reassurance.
In the back of my mind, I guess I'm recalling that time when I was a child and while we were gone for a week (Colorado? I don't even recall any more), a favourite cat ate caulking and was dying excruciatingly until my father decided to cut his suffering short with a spade. We live in a big apartment containing lots of things he shouldn't ingest; he's already killed one rat in it. I've become fanatical about pulling things away from him and cutting any food I give him into mince lest he choke on it.
I'm not exaggerating when I say that losing him will be, in a small way, like losing Monshu again. We found him together. When I mock his whining, in my mind I hear Monshu doing the same thing. He gave our home a soul and so long as he's alive the dream of being together in it isn't totally extinguished.