Rascal

I've been dreading writing about this, but I must. I won't feel complete closure until I do. Offer up my little piece of tribute, of eulogy. Anything that takes up such a piece of your heart, mind, and time deserves a few paragraphs penned in its honor.

People who don't have pets think it's silly when their owners grieve them with the intensity of a lost human loved one. Even some people who only display a casual relationship with their animals look down on the people who perform funerals for gold fish and dogs and gerbils.

But then there are the people who regard their furry (and scaly or slimy or whatever) friends as members of their families. The frequently crocheted quote "Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened" rings true. It's a special kind of relationship. Cats love unconditionally. No one can dispute the comfort a purring cat perched happily on his or her owner's lap, eyes slightly closed and paws kneading, provides. There's no question of the unfailing love behind the green oval eyes.

Rascal sat on my lap for ten years, his love never failing and his paws never allowing a morsel of food to make it to my mouth with an attempted interception. He dined better than most people, preferring bacon above all else. Though he was largely governed by his stomach (and easily manipulated by the all-important word t-r-e-a-t), his heart is the most memorable part of his kitty personality. He was a very sweet animal, not at all bowing the general cat stereotypes of disdain for humans.There is no disputing that he loved us from the moment we extracted him during his first days of life from between Grandma's porches to the last time he exited our house.

He punctuated my child- and teen-hood with the needed experience of pet ownership. With animals comes the responsibility and companionship necessary to growing and maturing. Though I was devastated to learn of his disappearance, it seemed somehow darkly fitting that he died a mere week before I returned home for my first break from college. One of the largest pieces of my childhood now divides my life into childhood and adulthood, life with and without Rascal.

The night I returned home, the first thing I saw was his little dry food bowl sitting sitting expectantly and full. That sight coupled with his abandoned toys and scratching post littering the living room floor drove the reality of his disappearance home. But as I sat crying in the midst of his things, I wasn't mourning just my precious pet. I was mourning the loss of my life was it was before.

Rascal was the best first pet anybody could I have, and I'm incredibly for the ten years he brought joy to my life. I refuse to think about what terrible fate he most likely met and relish the many, many memories he gave me and my family. He was a remarkable cat and my best friend for half of my life. I will miss him.

And many years from now, when I have a family of my own, we will have a precious family cat too, so my kids will know the all-important love of an animal.

Post-Op Procedure

I could never be a veterinarian. Doctors have the luxury of patients that can tell them when it hurts. Animals will ignore the pain, spit out the medicine, growl. It takes a special hand to feel what is happening beneath the fur, treat without ever really knowing how the patient is reacting.

My cat must think this is some cruel torture. He is sent off into the hands of strangers in strange smelling rooms, cold and clinical. They poke and prod him. Then everything just disappears for awhile.

When he wakes up, he finds his carefully groomed coat half gone, his face imprisoned in a plastic prison, a drain poked through the lengthy cut in his newly exposed skin, held together by stitches and medical glue.

When he's finally returned to the incompetent but loving hands of his primary caregivers, they keep him contained in a cage where he thrashes about in confusion from the anesthesia and experience. Deprived of his freedom, body, and routine, he does not understand these sacrifices are made for a greater good. He simply must trust.

I have to pity the sad creature sleeping on the floor in front of me. The ends of the drain poking out from his purplish smooth skin raise up and down with each rhythmic breath. He lays his head awkwardly to limit contact between his ears and whiskers and the cone. He licks the tip of his tail and the ends of his paws; they're all he can reach, but he's desperate for the comfort of the familiar action.

Yet he sticks his head out so I can pet his forehead beneath the cone, scratch where it's tied around his neck. Though we've put him through his awful ordeal, he trusts. After all, we have the food.

The Great Outdoors

So I haven't been writing lately...
Quite the fail on my part.
I just haven't been putting any cohesive thoughts together lately. Nothing really to commit to paper, er, screen. I have the feeling this post isn't going to be much different.

When I was little, I spent my life outside. If I spent a day inside, I felt a little guilty, like I was wasting all the sunshine and the fresh air. It's purpose was to provide a backdrop for all my vast imaginary worlds.

When I was really little, our house had (what seemed to me at the time) really big woods. Thinking back, it must've not been that big or Mom wouldn't have let five year old me tromp around out there unsupervised. But in these woods, I had great adventure. I don't remember that much, except the overwhelming happy feelings of fun, except this one day in which I discovered these random bones. I was completely convinced I'd stumbled on some sort of archaeological breakthrough. The missing link was in my backyard. Looking back, I'm pretty sure they were the toys of my neighbor's dog, T.J.

Now, I rarely go outside unless I'm walking from point A to point B. I'd like to blame it on the cold weather, but it's not that. I just lost the need to go out there somewhere along the way.

In my literature class, the discussion revolves around the properties of nature being conducive to self-discovery. Henry David Thoreau climbs the mountain and comes back down with divine inspiration and insights into the depths of humanity. I have issues buying into this theory. It seems awfully romanticized to me. But I did seem to like the outdoors enough when I was little. I didn't imagine half the things inside as I did in the big woods or the other assorted backyards I would later play in. Does this owe to nature or a child's imagination, though?

Today, I had to walk my cat. (That's another long, boring blog...) I put him on his little cat-sized leash and unleashed him into the wild he so desperately craves. While he was very frustrated to be tied to me instead of his usual manner of running free, he tried to make the most of the rare escapade. While I held onto his leash, forever pulling away from me, I found myself standing at the edge of the woods surrounded by nature.

No divine intelligence made its way through the branches into my waiting brain, but I did feel a little more peaceful than usual. More content. I tried to adopt the look of my cat, sitting serenely but acutely aware, in the middle of his kitty kingdom. He took in every leaf that blew and branch that swayed with keen awareness. Each branch he took care to sniff was of the utmost importance and deserved his complete concentration. While I'm not capable of this level of concentration, I tried to take it all in adequately.

Eventually, my dear pet extracted himself from his leash and dashed off. Because he's not allowed this freedom until the end of the month, I had to chase him through the woods. It's much less glamorous when you're trying to save your cat's $1000 dollar operation and random branches and thorns and unidentified sticky things are attacking you.

So, I finally gathered the animal and corralled him in the pool fence, so at least he'd still get to breath the fresh air. I sat in there with him, reading. I found myself much happier here, with this modern printed book that didn't fall from a tree, than I did standing in the woods. I guess I'm not an adventurer of the woodlands or a vast appreciator of the thing called Nature, like Henry David. I remain stubbornly unashamed of this fact.

But, perhaps, when the weather warms up, I'll set aside some time to go out and play.

For the Love of a Cat

People have always had pets. I don't know what it is about them that makes us need them so. Why do we want to reign in wild creatures for our own personal satisfaction?

I guess it makes sense. It gives us a (sometimes false) sense of superiority and we like having something dependant on us.

Pets' love sure does seem unconditional. No matter what I put my cat through, he still looks at me with such adoration and trust. Even that one time he ended up on the pool steps, or after a particularly traumatizing trip to the vet...

Like today. This weird black dot developed in his eye awhile back, a few months, and we should've taken him sooner. But we brushed it off as something trivial that would go away on its own. It didn't. We took him today because his face had started to swell and emit puss. Yeah, gross.

Turns out it's a tumor and has to be removed. This requires taking him to a specialist in Greensboro, a lot of money, surgery, and possibly the loss of his eye. Dad's not going to want to pay for it; the poor thing might lose his eye. I feel horribly guilty for not taking him sooner, but it would probably have the same diagnosis anyway. I gave him way too many treats when we got home anyway, as if the things could make up for possible loss of half your senses.

The thing that kills me is he still looks at me with those trusting eyes, around the tumor. I just know it would kill me for him to only be able to look at me with one eye.

I could never have children. If I'm this attached to a pet, if his injuries upset me so much, what would I do if it were my child?? I know I'm far from the only person this attached to their pets, but that doesn't make it suck less. I love that cat more than the majority of people. After all, people's love isn't nearly as unconditional as his, nor their trust as enduring, or as innocent.

I can't even write anymore about it; it just makes me too sad to think about. I'm so sorry, my dear cat.