Critter had been in Cat Heaven many times. He was there every time I put a dish of food in front of him, every time I brushed him (his interpretation of pleasures of the flesh), and every time I wrapped him in a towel and snuggled with him. But now he's in the Cat Heaven where I can pet him only with my memories.
Being owned by an elderly cat is a different experience than being owned by a young, frisky cat. An elderly cat leaves you breathless every time you check on him, because you're never quite sure if he'll still be breathing.
He tests your patience when he miscalculates where the puppy pad is and piddles on the floor. Or, worse, when he has a bad night and poops in his bed. But it's a relief that he poops and piddles, because that means his kidneys are working and he isn't constipated. And it means he's been eating and drinking. You just hope that in addition to eating, piddling, and pooping, he'll keep breathing.
When Critter's buddy Shrimp quit breathing one day, it was unexpected -- he died in my arms a few hours after thyroid surgery. That was a rough death, because he was alive and almost frisky one minute, and gone the next. Cardiomyopathy is like that.
I do believe that the love we share with our pets is as eternal as the love we share with our family and friends. Indeed, it is the measure of our souls to love those who give us nothing but love in return. It is the riskiest kind of love, for it is most likely destined to end in loss; but it is also the safest kind of love, for it is founded on a purity of intent that few human relationships can rival.
I confess to not experiencing immediate solace to know that Shrimp went to Cat Heaven. I missed him, and thoughts of him being in some other phase of existence weren't all that comforting. I took some consolation that my last thought about him while he was still alive was an awareness of how much I loved him. Actually, that was the only awareness that made me feel better.
It also helped to realize that at least I was with him when he died -- and that I was with Critter more recently in his final moments. Not all cats and people are so fortunate. Sometimes we have to be glad for whatever small blessings the parsimony of heaven sends our way; often, they are greater than we think.
It's different to lose someone suddenly, rather than to lose someone after a lingering illness or a long life. When you can see the end coming, as I did with Critter, you grieve in advance, which makes the ending somehow a bit less harsh. But as time passes, the sweetness emerges in the hope that someone you love is now running and jumping and snoozing, and is free from pain. When my father died, I found comfort in an awareness that, after years of immobility, he could walk again, albeit in another realm.
I can only shrug if unbelievers snicker, or if they wonder how I could get so fuzzy around the edges. The fact is that love blurs our edges and fuses our hearts, which is perhaps the greatest blessing of all.
Critter's mom
2003
Shrimp was an intense cat; his mother, Charlotte, is still slinking around my cousin's farmhouse in Pennsylvania.