Yes. I am grieving for my dead cat.
It’s weird to see how a grown man sheds tears for a pet cat — a seemingly small and insignificant thing that could be no better than a conversation piece. It’s also strange how since we had Mikey checked, and he was diagnosed with a heart problem, we somewhat felt much closer to him. In the months that followed that check up, he with his labored breathing and weight loss, would worry us. We would allow him to do something we don’t usually do — let him into our bedroom. Once inside, he would sit still for several minutes, peering at the small lights through the window, or the paper rustling on my desk when the fan hits them. In those moments, I would imagine Mikey to be a old man, tired from living a full life, just staring into space while reminiscing the years that have been. He then would jump up the bed, and greet us with his odd meow (like a low-pitched “murraw”), and begin to savor the soft, wide bed — a welcome change from the cold tiles in the living room near the front door. He would then proceed to approach me and firmly thrust his front paws alternately against my stomach, as if massaging it. He was called “masseur cat” because of this, just one of the many fond names our friends have come to call him (i.e. others are “fluffycat”, “Mikey The Cat”, and “yellowfur”).
It was during these “funny” moments that I get a sense of (oddly) affection from a non-human creature. It could be from watching movies like “Flipper”, “Lassie”, and the other animal flicks that I feel an outpouring of attention and warm contact… something we don’t always get day by day, from any human or otherwise. I could almost equate it with my Mother giving me a sponge bath at age 6 when I have high fever, or my best friend asking me to go biking with him, or my grandmother taking me to the movies even when I was too young to remember any storylines. It seemed important enough to feel, analyze, and remember. Subsequent research would tell us that most cats do this as a latent “force-of-habit” gleaned from being tiny kittens suckling from their Mama Cat, pushing the tits to squeeze the milk out as they feed. Funny as that seemed, I do so enjoy allowing Mikey to do his “habit” on me. It was a way that we connected.
He would go on with this massage for as long as 20 minutes, until we tire of it, get sleepy, and need to send him outside the bedroom so we could sleep. I would feel sorry for sending him out, but its rare that he would stay in the room til the time we need to get up in he morning. He would sleep on the bed, and then get up after a few hours, open our bedroom door, and slip out. Yes, he opens doors. He jumps the small lever that opens the door, a skill only he has, among our 3 cats.
This morning, as Harry was packing his bags to go to a weeklong work activity, Mikey stood close by in the room, like a mother watching her son pack for summer camp. It was the last time Harry would pick him up and talk to him. Tonight, after refusing to ingest his heart medicine tablet, Mikey saunters into our studyroom where he usually looks for us when he wants attention. He lets out a shrill yelp, a sound we have never heard from him. We rush to find him gasping and stiffening, as if drowning. Within seconds, he lost life. I took out a towel, wrapped him and brought him to Harry, who also bade a tearful farewell. It felt like a friend died. It felt like love died. It was quite sad.
It was not insignificant. For four years, Mikey would keep our little apartment alive with his antics and noises. Now, even the two other cats feel his loss, hiding in a corner of the living room, as if in disbelief. I may be crazily ascribing human emotions and actions to a bunch of “lower” creatures. But having taken these cats from when they were kittens, rescued them from the cruel streets, nursed them to healthy youth and then to adulthood — nothing else came so close to having children of our own. This may seem silly to some, but to me, it makes sense. The same way we value a job, a memory, a promise, a friend…I value Mikey, our cat, just because of what he is and what he makes us feel, despite his “non-humanness”. It was a fondness that overshadowed any silliness or idiocy, or triviality that anyone might poke at it. All those never mattered to us. What matters is that we had Mikey, he had us, and even for just a few years, we co-existed and drew happiness from it. Thank you, Mikey. We feel your loss quite dearly. We will remember you for life.
All pets go to heaven. Mikey couldn't wait.
