i don’t know what i’ll do tomorrow

Posted on by

The cat is dead.

I can hardly believe I wrote those words. But they’re true and there it is. My morning companion, my afternoon nap buddy, my evening pest, is dead. I know there are people who object to that term and I understand, but it’s necessary for me. The only way I can accept her absence is to acknowledge the fact that she’s dead. Nothing else would prevent her from being here with me. No rainbow bridge could stop her.

I’ve written about the cat before (here and here). I’ve always referred to her as “the cat.” She had an actual name, Abby, though I’m not sure I’ve ever used it. I really don’t know why. I always told folks I didn’t use her name because it seemed presumptuous for a human to attach a human name to an independent non-human being. I’d tell folks I didn’t use her name because I respected her autonomy. There’s probably some truth in that. I’m not sure how much.

I’d say she was an odd cat, but that’s true of every cat I’ve known. She was a small, stubborn, commanding creature. She liked things a certain way; she liked predictable ritual behavior. Every morning we’d check the perimeter, which basically amounted to the two of us standing at the back door and looking out at the yard; some mornings she’d stand or sit on my foot as I stood there. It was just a few moments, but we did it every morning. 

We did something similar every evening. I’d got in the habit of retiring to the basement at some point between eight-thirty and nine PM, where I’d write or watch television. She adapted to that and every single evening she’d come striding into the living room around that time, and she’d make it clear I needed to pet and feed her, and get my ass downstairs. She’d sit and stare at me if I didn’t follow the ritual. If I resisted, she’d move a bit closer and keep staring. The cat ran a tight ship. 

I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow. 

Like most cats, she napped a lot. In the summer she liked to nap in the hostas; she’d bury herself amongst the leaves and act as if she was invisible. In the colder months she liked to nap in a patch of sunlight. Or on my lap. I say she ‘liked’ it, but the truth was she was insistent. She wanted me to sit a certain way, with one leg tucked under the other. If I sat wrong, she’d fuss and fidget until I sat properly. She made me her nap monkey; she decided when and how the napping was to be done, and I just tipped my hat and went along.

She’ll never nap on my lap again. 

She wasn’t a talkative cat; she communicated mostly by staring at you. Sometimes, if you failed to notice her staring, she’d rear up and gently tap your arm. “Hey, pay attention to me.” I never thought of myself as the sort of person who talked to animals, but I surely became one. I talked to the cat often. I never talked ‘baby talk’ to her. Not once. We had adult conversations. She had a peculiar purr–it was more of a stuttering rhythmic grunt than a traditional purr. And she was stingy with it; she didn’t purr much. But when she did–when she was really contented and happy–it was the most wonderful sound.

I’ll never hear that sound again.

I’ll never hear that sound again. She’ll never nap on my lap again. She’ll never send me downstairs to work again. We’ll never check the perimeter again. I miss her so much.

I’m not prepared to miss her. I was prepared for her to die; we knew it was coming and having too much experience with death, I was ready for it. But I wasn’t ready…I’m still not ready…for how much I miss her.

I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow.

41 thoughts on “i don’t know what i’ll do tomorrow”

  1. Augh. This hit like a blow to the chest, and I started to cry. I felt like I knew her through your images and writing, one of the beloved creatures I know through my friends, enjoying their odd little personality quirks and foibles. It’s a year and a few days since Yoda Bob Dog died, and I still miss him. I think at times about adding in a new animal to the mix, but I’m not ready. Not sure I’ll ever feel ready. Thank you for sharing your kitty with us, and thanks also for sharing your loss, even though it hurts. Many hugs sent over the ether.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply ↓

  2. We’re never ready. No matter how much we think we’re prepared. Because of you, so many of us knew her and loved her. I’ll miss Abby too. A lot. I’m so glad I got to know her a little bit. I know what she meant to you. And to us.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

  3. Sometimes that empty spot left where the animal who was your daily companion resided holds more pain than you expected and it won’t let it out, but it’s clear she was an integral part of your every moment in your shared space in a way no one else was, and that’s the unique relationship we have with these animals. Their loss is very personal and no one else can really share it, she shared her life and habits and affection with only you. She sounds like the kind of cat that so many people want to live with. I’m sorry it’s over, but it’s a little spot of peace in the world that you two shared and the memories will be gentle.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

  8. “The Cat” was all yours, and You were all Hers. A perfect union. That will never change. I am so sorry you have to bear this sadness, greg. Since March, I miss my Rudy, and console myself with those three sentences.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

    • Rudy is a great name for a cat. And as you know, bearing the sadness is a small price to pay for the weird privilege of sharing a living space with another species.

      Like

      Reply ↓

  9. I am so deeply sorry for your loss! It hit me particularly hard to realize I will no longer see your feet and her paws at the back door checking out the perimeter – it gave me some odd sense of security. Your images of her are very beautiful- I’m glad that you chose to share them with your devoted followers.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply ↓

  10. This touches me. I got a dog, and he’s been with me for 6 years and he is still relatively young. Yet… my attachment has grown strong enough that I already project what it would be like to lose him. Our routines are set, like yours were with your cat and he is insistent on them, like your cat. I have enjoyed reading about your routines and could totally feel you connection. This is a huge loss, and I feel for you. I understood you title to this piece viscerally when I read it.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

  11. Oh, Greg, I’m sending condolences to you and everyone around you who loved her as much as you did and always will. We truly lose a chunk of ourselves when our beloved four-footed companions leave us; it’s such a singular kind of loss. Thank you for sharing “the cat” with us all these years. The photos and anecdotes you shared here and through the years are a beautiful tribute to your mutual love and affection. I’m keeping you in my thoughts.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

  12. Many, many years ago, I had to put a dog down because he bit (I have my doubts) the mail carrier. I swore at that time I’d never have another pet, but after a couple of years or so in San Francisco, we got a rescue cat. Now I can’t imagine her not being here. In fact, I have trouble imagining a world without the dynamic that we share, peculiar though it might be.

    All that to say that you have my condolences.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

    • That’s exactly what makes sharing space with another species so rewarding — somehow organizing your two independent lives to complement each other. Finding that singular specific balance, and living within it.

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply ↓

  13. My sincerest condolences as you learn to get used to a naked lap and no cat to direct your movements. I’ll miss your gorgeous photos of her. Hopefully that visual record will bring you comfort when you miss her most.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply ↓

  14. The first sentence of your post made my heart seize. How could it be? She was just on your lap, keeping you company while Wordling! You’ve shared her with all of us so well, through photos and stories, that I feel like I know her, doughty little cat. The love we put into these creatures that don’t live long enough at all. The trust they give us. The joy we get from them (and I daresay, they from us). I am so very sorry for your loss.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

  15. This hit me like a gut punch. I said goodbye to my dog of 14 years last week…I simply cannot recall a time when she was not by my side. I wake up in the middle of the night, hearing her tags jingling to tell me a potty break is required, only to realize that she is gone. These furry family members work their way into your heart, and you never realize how much until they are gone. My deepest condolences. Truly….

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

    • That’s one of the things I wasn’t prepared for…those moments when you hear a noise and look up knowing the cat is jumping off a table or at her kibble dish, then realize there was no noise and no cat. It sort of guts you for a moment, then (at least for me) makes you smile because she’s still sort of there in a way.

      I’m so sorry for your loss.

      Liked by 2 people

      Reply ↓

  17. I never know what to say when things like this happen, so I’ve avoided saying anything all day.

    Cats have a way of burrowing into your soul, but their lives are so fleeting compared to ours. When they die, it’s inevitable but it’s heartbreaking.

    We all knew her, vicariously, through your posts – she was a part of our lives too. I’m sure there are many sad people today. I am certainly one of them.

    Like

    Reply ↓

  18. Thank you for sharing cat with us… I always enjoyed your relationship and identified with it…. and your posts have made me more aware of my time with my girls…. as does this one, acutely… I am so very sad to read the cat is dead. …and I am dearly sorry for your loss. My Frannie has gone blind… just yesterday… Last night…she came out into the front room and I learned she could not see… She’s probably 17? I’ve had her and Kukla for 15 years and the humane soc said they were 2 when I got them…. They came from the same home and hate each other to this day….and that makes the blindness trickier… Frannie knows Kukla is here…but where? Everything smells like Frannie….everything smells like Kukla…so where??? ah, me…..amazingly….Frannie is still able to jump up on the bed in the night when I’m sleeping….and I read that most likely she’ll adapt….and we’ll be able to carry on…for a while….and then ‘the time will come’… I dread….. I’m glad the cat and you found each other… and I’m sorry ….

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

    • I’ve known a surprising number of folks who’ve lived with blind cats. It’s amazing how they adapt. Amazing and still heartbreaking.

      I don’t discuss this much, but I’m sort of a careless Buddhist. After the cat was diagnosed with kidney disease, I found myself repeating a mantra at least once a day, usually while feeding her. ‘The cup is already broken.’

      It’s from one of those endless Buddhist stories about a teacher and a student. The two of them are having tea, and the angsty student asks, “In this world where loss and grief are inherent in our very coming into existence, how can there be any happiness?” (Also, you’d think Buddhist teachers would know better than to have tea with students, because they’re ALWAYS asking these sorts or questions; it must get annoying.)

      Anyway, the teacher lifts up his cup. It’s extremely old and fragile and beautiful. He says, “This cup has been in my family for generations. It’s perfect and I enjoy it. I drink out of it. It holds tea admirably, it’s perfectly suited to my hand, it reflects sunlight in beautiful patterns. If I tap it, it has a lovely ring. But I remind myself every day that it’s already broken. Some day I’ll drop it. Or the cat will knock it off the table. Or it will just crack on its own. When I understand the cup is already broken, every moment with it becomes precious.”

      When I fed the cat, I’d say to myself, “The cup is already broken.” I thought it would prepare me for her dying. It didn’t really, though it made her death a little easier. What it DID do was more important: it reminded me to appreciate the cat every day.

      Liked by 2 people

      Reply ↓

  19. As I read this sad story my cat Jewel is nearly blocking the monitor. The words “coffee is ready” brings her onto the computer desk for her morning brushing. When the alarm rings she stomps on me and flips her tail over my face to ensure I’m awake. She brings me joy and remains a constant friend for three years and five months. Will you bring another cat into your home?

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

      • Way too soon.
        I recently learned that the mourning period for losing a person very close to you is a year and a day, officially. Although I don’t know whose tradition this is, I grabbed onto it like a life boat. “I’ll only be on this boat for another 11 months and a day, and then I’ll be – well, not over it, but learning to deal with it.” Like that.
        For cats, that mourning period is probably, well, let’s see… It’s cats, so it will be when the Cat Zeitgeist declares that you need another cat, who needs you and won’t admit it, ever.
        I once had a cat who would announce to my hubby that it was me calling. He described it as the cat demanding that hubby let us talk, the call must be meant for him, the cat. Often he would let us have a moment on the phone together before we went on with our human conversation.
        I miss them, terribly.

        Liked by 1 person

  21. Ms Kitty Fantastico was left in my care after her owner, my daughter, left home. After 19 years of wonderfully pampered life (mostly by my partner) and one trauma (we try not to talk about it) she has had a good innings. I liked to think I was not a cat (or dog or any creature) person but she has attached herself to me and made me love her. I know it will be a very sad day for us when she begins her endless dreamless sleep. I send my sympathy for your loss.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

  22. I tried to read all the comments, but my eyes became so blurry with tears that I couldn’t continue. What a wonderful gift that us humans are able to link with creatures large and small….feline….canine that give us unconditional love on their own terms. I still sit on the top step to put on my shoes every morning, expecting my lab Kona to sit down beside me and lick my face. I talk to her…even though she has been gone since March. That’s just one example. I remember an old Levi’s ad….a long long time ago….that said “Better to have had them and lost them, than never to have had them at all”…..it’s true. RIP Abby.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply ↓

    • Dogs offer unconditional love. That’s their gift, and it’s truly a gift because you don’t have to earn it. Dogs are saints. My experience with cats is that their love and affection is conditional, but you never quite know what those conditions are. Every person who’s shared space with a cat is familiar with the experience of a cat wanting to be petted, but stepping away just far enough away from you for petting to be difficult.

      Dogs are wonderful; cats are exasperating — and we love them both for what they are.

      Liked by 2 people

      Reply ↓

  24. I’m so sorry for your loss, Greg. Abby will see you at Rainbow Bridge when you are ready. Cats are a “different” kind of animal. Especially different than dogs. I don’t pretend to understand cats, because frankly I can’t. But I DO know when a cat chooses his/her person, that’s it.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

  25. We who are owned by a cat; totally understand your pain and loss.
    Anyone who doesn’t understand their (cats) amazing diversity, just need our pity.
    My sincere condolences.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply ↓

  26. I’m truly saddened for you. We’ve had several cats and many animals. We’ve had to say goodbye to cats, dogs, horses, and a beloved cow. It always leaves a void. They help us create a routine as they are creatures of habit. RIP Abby .

    Like

    Reply ↓

  27. Pingback: a year | gregfallis.com

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.