Monday, August 5, 2013


I don't want to write this post.

What I want is to go upstairs, open the bedroom door, and have Beansie chirp a hello at me. I want to go to bed tonight and, after I turn out the light, feel the soft thump of her jumping onto the bed and then climbing onto the pillow next to my head. I want to be able to feel her nuzzle against my face and hear her purring.

Instead, I walk into the room to the sound of the wind in the curtains. I go to bed and wait in vain. I can only remember how soft her fur was, how happy she would be to see me, the way she would purr with her entire self as she went to sleep next to me.

I had her for ten years.  For ten years she was my shadow, my touchstone, my companion. She loved me unconditionally. When nothing else was even close to okay, she reminded me that everything was okay.

I don't know what to do without her.

I don't want to write this post. I want to scoop her up and dance around the room with her. I want to turn on the shower and see her jump up and do her little kitty dance of joy under the spray. I want to take off my shoes and watch her put her feet in them and then go to sleep.

But instead, I have to write this post.

My parents try to remind me that Beansie wasn't supposed to live this long, and that every moment I had with her was a gift. My brain recognizes this as a true thing.

My heart, though, is broken.

Over the weekend, the vet told me what I knew to be true: my cat, who used to weigh seventeen pounds, now weighed eight. All of her systems were failing. There wasn't anything we could do that would do anything other than prolong the inevitable, and in that prolonging? She would likely suffer.

So I let her go.

I put my face down to her face one last time. She licked my forehead.

And now she's gone.

I keep looking for her. I wake up in the middle of the night and reach my hand out to pat her on her pillow and she's not there. I come home and think I should check on her. I change the sheets on the bed and expect her to jump up and try to bite the hospital corners as I form them. But the pillow is cold and empty. I walk into the house and there is silence. I make the bed with no feline interference.

I know that I did the right thing. I know that she was sick and in pain. I know that.

I know she knew how very, very much I loved her.

I also know that she wouldn't have lived forever. Pets don't. We are gifted with their love for a limited amount of time, which is why it is up to us to make sure they are safe, cared for, and loved. I know all of that.

I know that.

But I still look for her out of the corner of my eye, and there is a Beansie sized hole in my heart.

And I do not want to write this post.

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