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Friday, September 20th
I had gotten up to my alarm, determined to make it through the day, the two tests I had wouldn’t bring down my mood. After all, it was my birthday.
I had to go downstairs to use the bathroom, and get ready for school. Somewhere in between trying to decide whether or I should stand up and wash my face, or fall back to sleep I heard my cat meowing. He usually did that standing outside the door, meowing or rubbing against it when someone was inside.
I wouldn’t have thought anything about it, but lately he hasn't been in good health. I had been the first to notice. It started with an infection, the left side of his face swollen. We had gotten medicine and a cone as he kept scratching at his face, we had hoped it would stop him from hurting himself, but it didn't.
I don’t know how he did it, but there was blood all over the couch one day. I hadn’t seen it, as I was out at the time, but it surprised my mom when she saw it.
After that, it just kept happening, he would scratch himself, we’d stop the bleeding and apply medicine. Over time I began realizing he had trouble walking, his tail would sway, he couldn’t walk in a straight line, and to top it all off he was getting thinner.
At this point I knew something was wrong with him. My baby was hunting and I couldn’t help him.
He would barely move, staying behind the couch for hours until my dad blocked it. Laying on top of the couches, things he had done before, but the way he looked. The way he sounded. How he moved, all that gave his actions new meanings.
I think I knew even then. He was getting old, I would often call his name, or poke him when he was sleeping, just to make sure he was still awake. I’d do the same with our dog, smiling when they raised their heads, softly muttering an apology for disturbing them.
So when he started meowing outside the bathroom door, I opened it, because what else was I supposed to do?
He had some trouble walking the short distance, unable to stand it. I gently picked him up, sitting on the toilet and I placed him on my lap. I stayed like that until my youngest sister came downstairs.
Calling her to the bathroom, I told her to wake our mom up, to tell her something was wrong with him. We told her how thin he had gotten, and she got his special wet cat food out for him. Telling me that we would feed him one very morning and night, along with a small bowl of water.
He ate most of the food, and I was relieved. Eventually I left for school, I laughed with my friends, I passed my tests, I ate lunch. I went along with my day like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, because I thought he was going to be ok.
It was Friday, which meant that our mom wouldn't be at home when we arrived after school. She and my youngest two siblings spend the rest of the day at taekwondo.
As always I called her on our way home, to ask what chores had to be done, what to make for dinner and anything else she wanted me to do. I can’t remember our exact conversation, but the most important thing she said was that they couldn’t find our cat. I of course promised, I’d find him and call her when I did.
I was confident. I knew all the places he hid: the closet, the windowsill, the side of the couch. I knew all of them, but I couldn’t find him. I checked the second floor, the basement, the living room, and the kitchen. I couldn’t find him.
The third time I checked the basement, I kept calling his name, listening intently for his meows, or the jingling of the bell on his collar, I eventually heard it. In the corner of the basement, laying on the bottom of our out-of-season shoes rack.
I carried him back upstairs with me.. I set him on the ground, but he kept falling, he couldn’t stand, he just fell into a lying position, so I told my dad, and called my mom when he didn’t come down after a while.
I remember him doing the exact thing I had done, trying and failing to get him to stand. I sat on the couch searching up what could be happening to him. After a while my dad laid him on a pillow curled up.
He said, “Don’t worry, just leave him be.” And I’m still not sure if I resent him for that.
Seeing his head lay limp to the side, I laid his head on my thigh, made sure he was more comfortable, and continued my call with my friend. We did homework together, we talked, I did duolingo. Our call continued for 1 hour and 26 minutes before hanging up at 4:03. The rest of my time was spent trying to memorize ‘8 letters’ by Why Don’t We.
I had it playing on loop and I was singing along. After a long period of time, I looked down at my cat on my lap. I was smiling, but his chest wasn’t moving. I knew I had grown a little paranoid, so I waited. I placed my hand to his chest, and I waited. I waited for a meow, for him to move, for him to blink. I waited to hear him purr. I waited, and I waited, and I waited. I waited with tears in my eyes, and I called my sister down.
I called her name and she replied, sounding annoyed. I called her again.
I said, “It’s Tony, I don’t think he’s breathing.”
I heard her run down the stairs, and by then I had tears running down my face. I saw her look at him, and immediately start screaming. She was crying, and screaming that it was our fault that he was dead. I yelled at her to stop being so loud. Our neighbors had a toddler and I didn’t want to disrupt them, but I was trying to distract myself from crying, because I was the oldest.
I called our mom first, her class was about to start, but she was closer than our dad, who had headed off to work. She didn’t answer, so I called our dad. When he answered he sounded playful, and that made me cry harder. I was crying hard, sitting by the side of the couch, with my knees to my chest, I was rocking back and front. I was telling myself to stop crying, that I was fine, that everything was going to be ok. That’s the way I deal with my grief.
I cried throughout our whole conversation, “Tony’s not breathing.”
“Ok go upstairs for now, my coming back home.” “Ok”
I stayed where I was for a while before going upstairs to the bathroom, I kept the lights off and sat on the floor. Unable to deal with the screaming, the crying, and the way my thoughts kept turning on me, I called my mom. When she heard me crying she asked me what happened.
I told her, and I don’t remember everything, but she ended up calling one of my aunts. Who worked as a Clairvoyant. She told me that our cat had been a guardian for me, that he watched over me when my mom was unable to. She told me that I’d be getting a new guardian soon.
I’m not sure if I believe her, but whenever I was crying, he would find me, I was usually the one he meowed at in the morning. I was the one who was lenient with him, who let him upstairs, who secretly gave him pieces of chicken and tuna. I loved him so much, and I still do. Before my phone was broken beyond repair I had over 100 pictures of him in all types of places.
He had always been my favorite, and I liked to think I was his. So the thought comforted me a little.
I was upstairs when my parents came back home, my dad arriving first. I went downstairs only to see him put his body in a box. I knew the answer, but I’d always brought myself unnecessary pain, so I asked him if he was actually dead. Immediately, my sobs started getting louder, because I hoped I was mistaken. I knew my mom had arrived when I heard her crying. Both my mom and sister stopped, but I keep crying.
He was lying on my lap, and I didn’t know. His eyes had been open and staring at me. I had been petting him. I was happy, and singing, while he was probably in pain. I could have helped him. I think that’s why I was crying so hard, why I kept bringing it up. I needed someone to blame, and blaming myself seemed like the obvious thing to do.
I didn’t know it then, but I was waiting to be yelled at. I was waiting for someone to blame me, because I blamed myself, I still do. Instead I was pulling into a hug, and it was just what I needed, a comforting presence. Someone who felt my pain.
‘I’ll make it through together.’
Those were the words I needed to hear. I know I’m an emotional person, crying when a character I like dies, crying at sad backgrounds, at hurtful words, and I love animals. I love how loyal they are, how they always managed to put a smile on my face. So I had expected more crying, I expected to not be able to function for a while. I was prepared for it. In fact I welcomed it. If I hadn’t my love for him would have felt cheap, like a one and done kind of thing.
I was fine, as much as I tried hard not to smile, I’m a very social creature, I always have a smile on my face. I found it hard to change my entire personality in a few hours. And maybe a part of that was because I chose to think that everything was ok. That it was all just a bad dream. A part of me still thinks like that, hearing meowing, or bells. Seeing the end of a tail. Calling out his name. Imagining him on the couch.
I smile really bigly, going to tell him about my day, to talk with him, or lay with him, only to remember that he isn’t here anymore. I've come to regret a lot of my actions, and I also know that I’m going to keep deluding myself, but it’s hard not to when I just miss him so much.