RIP, Big Orange Cat

I am so sick of this cat! Stop annoying me!!! He is trying to trip me and kill me!!

Those words repeat over and over again in my mind. They are some of the last things I remember saying to Furio (our Big Orange Cat) before he suddenly passed away on Tuesday morning.

Furio was "special".  When Allen and I were dating, I convinced him to "temporarily" adopt Furio when my brother was moving into an apartment that didn't allow cats. Allen saved his life. He's been with us ever since. His nickname, BOC (Big Orange Cat - duh) couldn't have been more fitting. He didn't walk, he lumbered. He ate paper - which wouldn't be so bad as paper is one of my many pet peeves, but he always managed to pick out the important document to chew on and regurgitate in pieces. When too much time passed between his allergy shots, he threw up all over the place, usually choosing clean, carpeted areas. His diet of paper and envelope glue obviously added to his regurgitation. He shed like crazy, even during the winter - orange hair was everywhere. He was outspoken and loud. His meow was sharp, piercing, and relentless.

To say the least, the past year has been a trying one for me and the cats. I had already secretly Become a Dog Person when we moved into, and were consequently living on top of each other in, the Shack. The arrival of The Baby pushed our already tumultuous relationship to the brink. Overwhelmed with my new lifestyle in which I felt like I constantly gave of myself, with nothing left over for me, in my eyes the cats existed purely to take from me. Unlike the dogs, they seemed to give nothing in return. Traits that once endeared me to cats in general I began to view as self-absorbed and entitled behavior in my little anxiety-ridden world. Furio, always at the bottom of the pack, was practically buried underneath dirty diapers and dog bones on the totem pole of Family.

Things will get better once we move. I must have said it 1,000 times. Our new house is vast compared to the Shack. The cats and I will go days on end without seeing each other! We will eat at a table while they frolic in the many other rooms. We will watch tv on one couch while they lounge on another. We can sleep with only 4 mammals in the bed! Then when we do see each other, we can cuddle and purr at each other, like cats and their owners do on TV.

But you know what? The situation didn't immediately improve. We moved. The cats were confused. Misplaced. Furio started throwing up again, and it REALLY bothered me when it was MY new carpets that were being stained. I took him to the vet for an allergy shot (it was that shot, a steroid, I believe, that ultimately killed him). They begged at my new kitchen table, like, and along with, the dogs. Once I gave Furio some food, he didn't even want it! He just wanted to annoy me. He followed me around all day, whining until I fed him dinner. Subsequently, the cats' "dinner" time creeped forward each day, until dinner became breakfast.

Last week I told a friend that I had reached my breaking point with him and wouldn't mind having him go live with my brother again, who could now accommodate a cat. There. I said it aloud. It must be true, right? As soon as the words left my mouth, my heart sunk and my stomach did a little flip. Wow. I sound like a horrible, selfish cow, I thought. My friend, also an avid animal lover and caretaker, looked at me in surprise. She knew me better than that. I immediately took back my words, but they lingered. They continue to linger.

Then, suddenly,  a week later, he fell ill. Death. I felt it as he woke me up early that morning (Allen had already left for work). His breathing had become difficult, labored and seemingly painful. I stroked his soft orange fur as I fumbled on my iPad and phone to find an animal hospital in a brand new city in which I knew no one and had only scoped out the shopping and restaurants. My anxiety took over as I began to plan how I would wake and feed the baby, get the cat into the carrier, baby into the car and then move the entire operation to a yet-to-be-located animal hospital. Furio looked up at me. For the first time in over a year, my mind stopped racing - my world stood still. I was too late. My tears fell onto his soft orange fur as I helplessly watched him take his last difficult breath and his heart skipped, then stopped. I sat there, shocked, in silence. I touched his fur, just to be sure. My words of the previous week weighed heavily on my mind.

I constantly think about Furio's last days with us. Every meow, mess and annoyance run through my mind, over and over. Was I so self-absorbed and baby-centric that I missed the signs? Was he trying to tell me something was wrong, rather than annoy me for the sake of annoying me? ME. Could it have been about HIM, and not about ME? Guilt. I think of this post I wrote after the New Year, about relishing and cherishing the simple things. About removing the negativity from my life, while adding positivity to the lives of those who chose to be part of mine. What about Furio? Had I unknowingly become the same type of self-absorbed person that I wanted to avoid?

I know that in the big scheme of life, the death of a cat is a small thing. My heart goes out all over again as I try to comprehend the deep loss of loved ones and loved ones of loved ones. Graduate school a recent memory, I am well-versed in the Stages of Grief. Nevertheless, I constantly think about death and I struggle with the regret that undoubtedly accompanies it. I am simply at a loss.

Last night I dreamt about Furio. He was lounging around while I cooked and we were simply co-existing, both content. We were somehow peaceful with each other in that moment. That's the funny thing about dreams; it can take an inordinate amount of time to communicate a simple thought, with a cat no less. You are allowed a lifetime of thoughts and possibilities in the snap of a finger.

I once read a poem about how, when a cat dies it leaves a "catlessness" behind. We are aware of what we miss. Back in real life, I think about Kaellyn, and am thankful she is too young to understand the loss, for I don't understand it myself. I find orange hair every where. Summer and the dogs mope. I try to console them as I would Kaellyn, and for the first time in a very long time, I practice patience with them. I tell them that we love who and what we love; we need never apologize for this but instead show it. They may not understand anything I say, but I hope they at least feel comforted by the effort I make towards reassurance. Because grief is easier when it is shared. Actually, it may not matter whether or not they understand.  Because, after all, I don't understand it myself. All I know is I miss the piercing meow of my Big Orange Cat. I'm sorry, Furio.