On an otherwise-nondescript July morning while preparing for work, I noticed that my cat --
name of Boo, seven years old, inveterate destroyer of carpet and furniture -- seemed somehow
lazier than usual. He also seemed to be feeling some vague discomfort, made obvious by his
refusal to dart underneath my heavy footsteps like some feline Indiana Jones. Chalking it up to
yet another bouquet of flowers that he’d mistaken for a snack, I ignored it as routine indigestion.
Before locking the front door, I paused and thought, “I hope it isn’t the kidneys again.” This, it
would turn out, was a nasty bit of foreshadowing.
Two days later, Boo was dead, the victim of an aggressive kidney ailment that had been lurking
for the entirety of his short life. Try as my fiancee and I could to save him -- bottle feedings,
subcutaneous fluid injections, solemn prayers to Bastet, Egyptian God of the Cats -- there was
no use. In the time it takes me to recover from a Packer game, my cat had gone from healthy to
inanimate.
In the days immediately following his passing, we hit all the typical beats that follow such a loss.
I gasp-cried through a wistful Facebook post, then through a gut-wrenching litter change, and finally through the saddest vacuum filter replacement in human history. Once the shock subsided, we were left with the typical mix of grief and guilt, but for a mostly atypical reason:
Boo died young and probably painfully, leaving a nagging feeling that he deserved better.
And then there was this: I didn’t really like Boo all that much. He’d claw at my face while I slept.
His destructive tendencies were chronic and numerous. And, of course, it wasn’t cheap to keep
him breathing. Although we certainly fought like mad to sustain his life, his actual presence was
merely tolerated for the bulk of his days on earth.
So, how do we process something like this? Am I misremembering an animal whose only living
mission was to soil all of my favorite shirts, or am I just uncomfortable with the fact that Boo
might prove to be a better pet in death than he ever was in life?
In many ways, losing a pet that you don’t like is trickier than losing one you love to pieces. Say,
heaven forbid, that it’d been my dog who died. The experience would be vastly different. It
would be devastating, sure, but the feelings would be tidy and simple. Best dog on earth, I’ll
never love anything again, the end.
With a problematic animal, the feelings are more scattershot. Boo’s most endearing moments
were almost always followed by something to clean or replace. It’ll be tough to see his adorable
Christmas ornaments without also thinking of the ammonia-scented havoc he wrought on the
tree skirt every year. Even when he was ill, it was hard to separate the rapidly declining animal
in front of me with the one who’d caused so much frustration.
At least, that is, until we made the call to let him pass. At that moment, a lot of feelings
crystallized into something so plainly obvious that I might have missed it if he’d died less
dramatically.
For better or worse, Boo made me more patient. He made me keep my clothes off the floor. Boo
forced me to keep the kitchen clean. He taught me to sacrifice out of fatherly duty. And he’ll
never read this -- partially because he’s dead, and also because he was a cat -- but I’m grateful
in ways I’d never really realized.
So, in Boo’s memory, I think I’ll get some things that he would certainly have enjoyed, if only
he’d had more time: a few new shirts, new carpet and furniture, and a brand-new Christmas tree
skirt.
August 2016
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