In Memory

I'll go on ahead and give a warning right now, this is not really ballet related at all.  Nor is it my normal 'guess what I screwed up today'.  This is, long story short, my cat died and I feel like shit about it.  For those who would rather skip this one, I wouldn't blame you.  But if you wish, proceed.  Either way, I gotta get this down somewhere or I'm gonna go crazy.

So, I'm moving in two days time.  New flat, sorted.  New job, sorted.  Boyfriend already over there with cat #1 (Mrs Treacle) and me and cat #2 (George).  In preparation for the move, I decided I was going to get George's 1 year shots done, as well, I had kinda already paid for them and I wasn't sure how quick I'd find a suitable vet when I got over to Belfast.  My vet, being the stars that they are, let me bring him in, after I already cancelled my plan.  But anyway.  Day of the shots arrived, I roll outta bed, hungover from the night before, debate about feeding George (he's not gonna starve afterall) and coming to the conclusion that I can't be bothered filling his ball up with food, I chuck it on the floor and get some clothes on, calling my friend to see if she's still cool with me coming over. She is, which is cool cause she's closer to the vet.

I cram George into his box, scooping up the rest of the food for him to eat on the way.  He hates being in the box, so he cries and I shush and coo. Get on the bus, get to my friends, and as we have some time to kill, decide to get breakfast.  Do a quick check and George is already making him self at home, because that's the kind of kitty he is. 

So we have our breakfast, going through a play by play of the night before and after about an hour, we are sufficiently sobered up and we head back.  Once in her flat, I call up the vet to make sure I have the appointment time right and Biz (my friend) goes into the kitchen.  While I'm on the phone, I hear her crying out both cats names (she has one as well).  I try to get off the phone with the receptionist, who continues to confirm my appointment time, despite me telling her something is wrong.  I get into the kitchen and I am initially relieved, there's no blood, there hasn't been a fight.  It's going to be ok.

But George is down.  He's on his side, drool coming out his mouth and looking very wrong.  I scoop him up, check on Biz's cat, who hisses at me, thus confirming he's good.  I'm still completely calm, and I tell Biz to grab the George's box, I'm running down to the vet.

Holding him, in a near run for the vet, I am convinced he's still with me.  He's just been knocked out, he will be okay, I just gotta get him in.  Once there, it takes a minute for the receptionist to notice us and when she does, I begin to break and simply tell her 'Something's Wrong'.

She get's us into a room immediately and I put George on the table.  The same room he always goes into, the same one I brought I tiny kitten into just under a year ago for inspection, the same room I dropped him off for his neuter.  The vet comes in, stethescope in hand, quickly looks at George, then at me and tells me 'It's too late, he's gone.'

And I shatter. 

And it hits me in a way I would never have expected.  I mean, he's a cat right?!  I am overcome and I can barely speak and Biz comes in and she cries with me.  I then have to phone my boyfriend, and tell him our baby is gone.  Our healthy, happy, 14 month old kitty has just dropped dead.  He was fine an hour ago.

After than, I'm cuddling him and stroking him and just sobbing.  The vet hugs me and begins to tell me what could have happened and what options I have now.  It seems to have been his heart giving out and he went instantly.  We can find out if we cut him open, but there's nothing broken, nothing seems to indicate he's been poisoned, so I leave it.  I can't bear the thought of them cutting him open to satisfy my own curiosity.

Next step is what to do with the remains, which I haven't stopped stroking.  There's burial, disposal, communal cremation, individual cremation . . . we have a cat carriers downstairs we can get you to take him with you . . .and a hundred thousand things are running through my mind.  I managed to squeek out a joke, being he was such a good looking cat we should have him stuffed.  I somehow decide individual cremation is the way to go, I don't care that it costs extra. 

A bit of paper work is brought in for me to sign, I don't even read it, can barely scribble my name on it before I'm back at George's side, and set about the task of gently removing his collar. 

Then it's time to go, because they have a vet practice to run and they can't have me in there howling all day.  So one last kiss, tell him I love him and that I'm so sorry.  Grab the now useless cat box and head back.


Phew, so that's that.  I feel like I'm being ridiculous over this, but it happened so fast and unexpectedly, but I suppose these things do.  A fact of pet ownership is you will most likely outlive them.  I just didn't expect my 1 year old kitten to be the first to go or so suddenly.  Part of me is grateful now that he will be forever young, I'll never have to see him suffer or in pain and a power much higher than me made the choice that many other pet owners need to make.

Today's the first day I haven't cried.  This flat feels very empty and alone and I'm not looking forward to my journey as much, knowing that instead of taking a cat who was going to make a fuss the whole way, I'm taking cat ashes in a box.

And while I'm not overly religious, there's one thought that's been keeping me going.  And that is, my Grandad, who I lost in Feburary, who loved me so dearly that when I was born, he wore a baseball cap with 'Meg's Grandpa' on the front, needed someone to keep him company.  And mad as it seems, it helps me to sleep at night, thinking my wee George is curled up next to my Grandpa.

Your regularly scheduled blog will return shortly.  Sorry about the delay.