Over the past 24 hours, I've realized how much I've come to resent Time. It's not a concept. It's a bully - a cruel, so-called friend that is always giving you the most wonderful gifts and then snatching them right back. When I was younger, I waited like a faithful dog for Time to come. I could hardly wait for the day I could drive, go to college, drink, get married, the birth of each of my girls...like it couldn't get here fast enough. All I knew is that I wanted something, I didn't care how long I would have it. "Be careful what you wish for" applies here because my eagerness for Time to arrive did a complete 180 when Maria was born. I thought, "Okay Time, thank you. Please show yourself out...and leave the child with me." But it didn't leave. It continues to hover over every day with a menacing look, threatening to steal something from me. I do my best to rationalize it and live each day ignoring Time's presence. Some people say it should be embraced as a reminder to live each day to the fullest, make sure your friends and family know how much they are loved, blah, blah, blah. Well, I'm a procrastinator. It is virtually impossible for me to embrace time when we are mortal enemies.
Yesterday morning, I held my 14 old cat, 14 years and two days after I picked him out at the animal shelter, for the last time. I watched the vet inject one drug after another in a manner that is scientifically proven to guarantee that I'd be leaving without Manny. I even paid money for it. "Did that just really happen?" I thought. I'm a human. I have kids. He was a cat. He was old in cat years. These things should all mean that I should be sad but not too sad. The truth is, it sucks. Not just because I miss him, but because of what he represented.
He was my first "grown-up" responsibility. The first house I moved into after living in the dorms was celebrated by my Buddy and me going to the APL and picking out kittens. She chose this little black kitten. He was in a cage with a slightly older kitten with gray/tan fur, black stripes, and white paws and chest. The black kitten was so cute that I really wanted to find a tiny little kitten too. I looked through the cages. My now ex-husband was with us at the time and going from cage to cage playing with the kittens and cats. At one point, I saw him holding and petting the older striped kitten. He looked up at me and said, "This one is fucking awesome!" I walked over and picked up him up. I took a more careful look at him this time. He had a pink nose, black lightning stripes near his eyes like a cheetah, white feet with pink toes except for one black toe, and the most mellow demeanor of any kitten I ever saw. He just rested on my forearm and purred as I looked around. He didn't try to jump down or play. He just laid there on my arm while I continued to walk around look in the cages...as if to say, "That's alright. Look all you want. You'll pick me." Sarah and I stood in line with our new kittens waiting to pay the money and fill out the papers. Sarah's kitten was climbing all over her. He was sweet and playful. Manny, as I had already named him, was different. He was more "nice" than "sweet". He didn't seem scared or excited or...anything. Just peaceful.
Over the next fourteen years, he moved all around with me, adjusting perfectly to each new home and situation. He put up with a new kitten that attacked his tail while he tried to sit quietly and look out the window at the birds. He pretty much ignored Maria when we brought her home, but would lie patient and still while she smothered him with drooly 7-month-old hugs and kisses. He was always clever. Always affectionate. Always peaceful.
At the time, I didn't realize it, but adopting Manny wasn't just an act of being a pet-owner. It was crossing the threshold into adult life. I was accepting full responsibility for another living thing - something I had not yet done. Over the past fourteen years, he has been living, breathing proof that it wasn't that long ago. My wedding, Maria's birth, Ava's birth, moving, going back to school...all of these significant firsts in my life have had Manny as a constant thread. Through all those things, I was still responsible for him. He was still a part of it. As my life became more hectic, I know that I didn't pay him as much attention as I once did. But whenever I felt nostalgic or sad about the moments with my girls and my youth that Time has taken from me, Manny was a peaceful reminder that there was so much youth, my girls' and my own, still remaining. I have always liked having him here for that reason.
Yesterday, about 9:00 a.m., he was taken...he wasn't scared or excited...he was peaceful and still. It sounds so hokey, but I'm having trouble getting used to the idea of not having him at home, relying on me (and Mike - mostly Mike) to take care of him. I'm having trouble accepting that Time was successful in taking him away. I went to bed the night before thinking I was headed for another 'typical' Friday. We awoke just before dawn to find a terrified and seemingly paralyzed Manny, desperately trying , unsuccessfully, to stand. Mike brought him upstairs and I took him into my room and sat on the floor as I held him, tried to comfort him, and helplessly listened to Time's footsteps approach. Time kicked in my bedroom door and reminded me that I'm no match for its strength and tenacity. It reminded me that it is always there, no matter how much I try to ignore it. It reminded me that no matter how much I want to hold on to something, it always wants it more. In less than two hours, Time won and I walked out of the vet's office with the empty Disney Princess towels we wrapped him in to keep him warm (of course, we turned them inside-out when we wrapped him up - he deserved some dignity in his final minutes). The one common thread that linked the past 14 years together was gone and I walked outside having to return to my life knowing he wasn't at home waiting for us.
So while I'm sad about Manny being gone, it's Thursday that I'm missing most of all. Thursday was the last night I went to bed with my life as I knew it. It was the last time it felt like it was in one piece. Yesterday, it was all different. At the end of the day, I still had my girls and family, my health and home...those mean more to me than anything. But I could still feel his absence. Today is the same in that's it's different like yesterday. It feels off-balance. I know that in the near future, the hole will close and Manny will go from being my cat that just died to a cat I used to have. I will remember him fondly but think of my life, at that moment, as being whole. That's a gift that Time will give to me...but I hate knowing it'll one day take that back too.
Yesterday morning, I held my 14 old cat, 14 years and two days after I picked him out at the animal shelter, for the last time. I watched the vet inject one drug after another in a manner that is scientifically proven to guarantee that I'd be leaving without Manny. I even paid money for it. "Did that just really happen?" I thought. I'm a human. I have kids. He was a cat. He was old in cat years. These things should all mean that I should be sad but not too sad. The truth is, it sucks. Not just because I miss him, but because of what he represented.
He was my first "grown-up" responsibility. The first house I moved into after living in the dorms was celebrated by my Buddy and me going to the APL and picking out kittens. She chose this little black kitten. He was in a cage with a slightly older kitten with gray/tan fur, black stripes, and white paws and chest. The black kitten was so cute that I really wanted to find a tiny little kitten too. I looked through the cages. My now ex-husband was with us at the time and going from cage to cage playing with the kittens and cats. At one point, I saw him holding and petting the older striped kitten. He looked up at me and said, "This one is fucking awesome!" I walked over and picked up him up. I took a more careful look at him this time. He had a pink nose, black lightning stripes near his eyes like a cheetah, white feet with pink toes except for one black toe, and the most mellow demeanor of any kitten I ever saw. He just rested on my forearm and purred as I looked around. He didn't try to jump down or play. He just laid there on my arm while I continued to walk around look in the cages...as if to say, "That's alright. Look all you want. You'll pick me." Sarah and I stood in line with our new kittens waiting to pay the money and fill out the papers. Sarah's kitten was climbing all over her. He was sweet and playful. Manny, as I had already named him, was different. He was more "nice" than "sweet". He didn't seem scared or excited or...anything. Just peaceful.
Over the next fourteen years, he moved all around with me, adjusting perfectly to each new home and situation. He put up with a new kitten that attacked his tail while he tried to sit quietly and look out the window at the birds. He pretty much ignored Maria when we brought her home, but would lie patient and still while she smothered him with drooly 7-month-old hugs and kisses. He was always clever. Always affectionate. Always peaceful.
At the time, I didn't realize it, but adopting Manny wasn't just an act of being a pet-owner. It was crossing the threshold into adult life. I was accepting full responsibility for another living thing - something I had not yet done. Over the past fourteen years, he has been living, breathing proof that it wasn't that long ago. My wedding, Maria's birth, Ava's birth, moving, going back to school...all of these significant firsts in my life have had Manny as a constant thread. Through all those things, I was still responsible for him. He was still a part of it. As my life became more hectic, I know that I didn't pay him as much attention as I once did. But whenever I felt nostalgic or sad about the moments with my girls and my youth that Time has taken from me, Manny was a peaceful reminder that there was so much youth, my girls' and my own, still remaining. I have always liked having him here for that reason.
Yesterday, about 9:00 a.m., he was taken...he wasn't scared or excited...he was peaceful and still. It sounds so hokey, but I'm having trouble getting used to the idea of not having him at home, relying on me (and Mike - mostly Mike) to take care of him. I'm having trouble accepting that Time was successful in taking him away. I went to bed the night before thinking I was headed for another 'typical' Friday. We awoke just before dawn to find a terrified and seemingly paralyzed Manny, desperately trying , unsuccessfully, to stand. Mike brought him upstairs and I took him into my room and sat on the floor as I held him, tried to comfort him, and helplessly listened to Time's footsteps approach. Time kicked in my bedroom door and reminded me that I'm no match for its strength and tenacity. It reminded me that it is always there, no matter how much I try to ignore it. It reminded me that no matter how much I want to hold on to something, it always wants it more. In less than two hours, Time won and I walked out of the vet's office with the empty Disney Princess towels we wrapped him in to keep him warm (of course, we turned them inside-out when we wrapped him up - he deserved some dignity in his final minutes). The one common thread that linked the past 14 years together was gone and I walked outside having to return to my life knowing he wasn't at home waiting for us.
So while I'm sad about Manny being gone, it's Thursday that I'm missing most of all. Thursday was the last night I went to bed with my life as I knew it. It was the last time it felt like it was in one piece. Yesterday, it was all different. At the end of the day, I still had my girls and family, my health and home...those mean more to me than anything. But I could still feel his absence. Today is the same in that's it's different like yesterday. It feels off-balance. I know that in the near future, the hole will close and Manny will go from being my cat that just died to a cat I used to have. I will remember him fondly but think of my life, at that moment, as being whole. That's a gift that Time will give to me...but I hate knowing it'll one day take that back too.
1 comment:
Found you from >MVM's blog. Your post about Manny made me cry, and I fear when my ten-year-old cats come to the end of their time with me, I will find myslef in the position you do a day later; not enough time to mourn. Take care!
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