Nineteen Years

How do you say goodbye to your oldest friend?  To the friend who has stuck with you through a terrifying boyfriend, dead-end jobs and emotional roller-coasters?  To the friend who watched patiently while you slept, kept the monsters out of the bathroom while you bathed, and waited in the window of your living room for you to come home from work at night?

I have no earthly idea.  And yet, I had to do that today.

My beloved friend of nineteen years passed into the light today.  Our vet drove out to our house in the worst part of Tropical Storm Julia so that Mister could experience his final moments in his body in his home.  Five minutes before the vet got here, Mister walked purposefully out of the guest bedroom and straight for the porch door, where TS Julia raged, damp and noisy.  He went outside anyway.  Maybe it was just to see the porch and the outside one last time.  But I think it was because he had spent so much time in that room over the last few weeks that being outside in the rain and the wind felt like one more chance to really experience living.  

When we got up this morning, Sean was pretty sure that this was the day.  Mister's eating had dropped off to nearly nothing.  Sean tried what we had been calling the "laser pointer test," because up until today, every time Sean zigzagged the laser pointer over the floor, imitating the motions of a mouse or a bug, Mister's eyes had gotten wide and he'd pounced on it, several times doing the two-pawed pounce and sometimes trying to bite at it.  It showed us he still had a will to live--that he still had some spark left in him that demonstrated to us he was still enjoying his life.

Today, when Sean tried to lure him into play, Mister just looked up at him wistfully and started purring.  He seemed to be thanking him for the effort, but letting him know he was going to have to pass on playing today.  That seemed to be our first hint.

Mister had several more very unsteady moments after that.  Up until a month or two ago, I always used to proudly say that Mister was still the fastest, most athletic cat in our household.  Even as his body started to diminish over the last few years, he still could jump with the best of them and could outrun Cooper if he needed to, and he often needed to.  The Mister of the last few weeks had difficulty getting in and out of the litter box.  A few times, I was worried he was really going to hurt himself just using the stairs that we had put beside the mattress on the floor.  

This morning, Mister was under the bed sheet as he had started doing since he had gotten really sick.  I crawled under with him and made a tent over him, the way I used to when he was just starting to get used to the idea of being under the covers, the way Otto, Wanda and Reggie had always done.  I lay there with him and told him that he had watched over me and protected me his whole life, but I understood if he needed to let go now.  I told him I knew he would still be watching over me no matter what, and that he would be able to watch over me even better when he was pure spirit, because he could go with me wherever I went.  I asked him to let me take care of him the way he'd always taken care of me.

And I cried and cried.  

Nineteen years just.  Isn't.  Enough.

It's easy for me to go down that path where I tell myself how much happier Mister would have been if it had just been him and me forever.  How I let him down by adding so many other beings to our perfect little bubble of two.  But that wouldn't be fair to me, and it wouldn't really be fair to him either.

Mister and I have always had a quiet, deep understanding of each other.  It was similar to Sean's with Otto, but maybe it was even more subtle and primal.  Mister and I always inherently "got" each other.  Both of us are dedicated introverts.  We get overstimulated easily and need lots of down-time.  We both can be sort of prickly sometimes.  I was reading back through some previous blog posts, because as weird as this sounds, sometimes I forget them, and read the one where Mister hauled off and bit me twice on the head in a matter of seconds.  Some people might look at that and think that our bond makes no sense at all--why would you be that close to a cat who bit you?  But that was exactly the point.  I knew that sometimes Mister would get tired of being petted and would scratch or even bite me.  Mister knew that sometimes I could be short-tempered or distracted, and wouldn't give him the attention he craved.  It didn't matter.  We loved each other anyway, in spite of, or maybe because of, our perceived imperfections.  

Nineteen years.  Many people don't have marriages that last that long.  Others don't have friendships that last that long.  Mister and I have shared a love and a friendship that was based on seeing each other clearly, and caring for each other anyway.  Our hearts beat together, in a way.  We were mirrors of each other--reflections of both the best and the worst in each other.  It drew us together in ways that were hard, I'm sure, for many to understand.

It was a testament to Sean's gifts as a Cat Whisperer that Mister grew to accept him, too.  I know that, especially in Mister's later years, he was pleased that Sean and I had found each other, even if he wasn't overly thrilled in the beginning.  Mister, like me, realized that Sean was somebody special.  It just took him a little longer than me to figure that out.

Sean and I have been together seventeen years this December.  Mister had been with me since I was 28 years old.  Mister always had a two-year head start on him.  Sean was always willing and eager to form a relationship, but it took Mister a few years to get the buy-in.  Watching Sean cuddling with Mister on the mattress, playing with him with the laser pointer, using the therapeutic laser to work on the sore spots in his back and kidneys, encouraging him to eat...the grace with which they learned to accept and love one another was both inspiring and humbling to watch.  I won't say it was a seventeen-year process, but it didn't happen overnight either.  There's a lot to be said for the easy relationships, but there's a lot to be said for the hard-won ones, too.

So we said goodbye today.  And I don't know if it's shock, or numbness, or if I'm just a complete babbling idiot.  But I don't feel like he's really gone.  It's not possible that nineteen years could just disappear in the blink of an eye like they seemed to today.

I still feel him, on my pillow, watching me as I sleep.  He's still here.  We still love each other, even after all this time.  

We always will.

Rest in Peace, my Sweet Boy