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| | My cat is dead.
The experience has devastated me and I’m struggling to find words to describe it. I want to write and I want to say what I feel, but it’s just so damned hard.
We almost didn’t get cats again, for fear of this day. We did and they were adorable, so my parents decided against going with any second thoughts they were having.
A few days later, my little sister named them. Little brother kittens, Mango and Mushu.
As they grew, it became apparent that Mushu was the wilier one. Mango was always a little more bewildered, but significantly less bothered by it. He was lazier and a bit bigger, the fur around his neck fluffier, like a little mane. Mushu was much smarter, though, and was usually the one to lead his brother into the cabinets to find the hidden food.
I had had an emotionally difficult March up to this point. A bit down again after a fantastic January and February, the last thing I was prepared for as I drove up to my house was seeing that body.
Cries of denial poured from my lips as I desperately went through the motions of parking and turning off my car. The cries grew hysterical as I flung the door open and stumbled hurriedly out, running over and recognizing him all too well.
Mango.
He’d purred when I’d said goodbye to him with a pat on the head three hours prior.
When we’d ride in the car, Mushu would meow incessantly, vehemently against being inside a moving vehicle like any other cat.
Mango would just sit there with his eyes shut and purr.
Shuddering gasps of breath jerked down my throat. I was in shock, hyperventilating.
I was freaking the fuck out.
I stumbled to the door of my house with a single purpose in mind: get my father. He disposed of our last cat, maybe he knew what to do.
My hand was shaking so badly I couldn’t fit my key into the keyhole. There was a light visible through the keyhole, and after a few seconds I heard someone unlocking the door from the inside. My father opened the door and asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t even talk, barely able to blurt out, “Come here,” as I stumbled back to the gutter. I gestured towards the cat and completely lost it. I started crying. I started crying hard, and tried not to be too loud while not really caring how loud I got.
My cat was dead.
I’d been through this before, but for some reason, this time was ten times worse.
You could never just pick Mushu up. He’d let you pet him and pick him up when he wanted you to. He wouldn’t scratch or anything, he’d just immediately jump back down. Mango almost never cared. He’d be in the middle of something and you’d pick him up. You’d hold him against your chest and feel him purr as he closed his eyes to make his happy face.
That was one of my favorite things about Mango. His facial expressions were so vivid and varied and hilarious.
Looking at him now, a pool of blood leading to his mouth, all that I saw on his face was pain. I had never seen this cat upset or angry or anything but obliviously happy or happily oblivious, but all that was on his face was this last moment, this frozen expression of agony.
I think that was the worst part. His face.
My dad went back inside to get something to put him in. I’ve always had this need, this strange, morbid need to document the major events of my life, just to be able to keep a timeline and to be have a record to return to, to remind me exactly how I felt at the time. The street lamp overhead didn’t give me much to go on, but, sobbing, I took a couple of pictures.
I stood by my car and made a phone call, trying to regain some tiny amount of control over myself. It went well, with me having to leave to help my dad. I was capable of talking at this point, still stuttering at points as I tried not to freak out again, but generally functional. I tried not to lose it as he put the body into garbage bag. Rigor mortis had already set in, his legs staying out as we lifted the bag around them.
We’ve never told my little sister immediately when our cats have died. She’s always freaked out when they went missing, but by the time my dad has broken it to her she’s kind of figured it out on her own and braced herself for the news.
No time to worry about the dead. We had to protect my sister.
We had to get rid of this body.
My father’s solution was to take him to the animal shelter, which was closed at the time, so we discussed leaving the cat in the trunk of his car until morning, when we could dispose of him properly. It was pretty cold, but I didn’t want to risk the smell. I called the closest friend I knew would be up at the time to ask him where I could find a dumpster. After finding out what was going on, D told me a place and said he’d meet me there. I agreed.
I picked up the bag, carried it over to my car, and placed it in my trunk. We washed the blood out of the gutter, and another puddle out of the street. The one in the street had coagulated. I felt sick.
My father reluctantly agreed to let me drive after I insisted. We drove.
We met my friend.
We entered the gated community that he had the passcode for.
I continued to fight the urge to freak out as we walked. The body sat heavily in the bag, bumping into me a couple of times, both times making my breath catch in my throat.
Lowering his body into that dumpster felt so wrong, but I knew it had to be done. There was no choice right then.
It’s not like the shelter would have been any more ceremonious about it.
I agreed to meet D back at his house after dropping my dad back off.
The drive back was mostly silent. My father sympathetically tried to calm me down, tried to tell me about how these things happen. How I needed to control myself.
I understood. He’s been through much worse and knows how to deal with these things, but his advice, however, well-meaning, wasn’t helping.
I told him my perspective.
I have to hold back my feelings in some way at all times. I have to be in control of some part of myself, always. Whether its secrets kept from friends out of a matter of principle and loyalty, or feelings for a girl that I’ve loved for years out of a necessity to retain the friendship and to not intrude upon her existing full plate of relationships, or resentment towards those that have fucked me over in a supposedly professional setting over petty trash-talking and high-school clique mentality, I’m always holding back something. To retain stability with the number of people I know, it’s a necessity. In that kind of life, there are some things that deserve to be left unhindered. They need to be.
So I asked him to please, please, just for this one thing, this one horrible fucking thing that was tearing me apart, to let it tear me apart. Please, let me be upset about this.
He was quiet for a moment, then simply said, “Okay.”
We reminisced about Mango on the way back.
Even though I’d rarely allow the cats into my room, there were times when I wasn’t home and Mango would just sit behind my door, waiting. Some of these times, my sister would pick him up and carry him around my room a couple of times.
He would purr loudly until they left my room again, then he went on his way, satisfied.
And he’s dead now.
We parked in front of my house and discussed how we were going to cover this up from my sister and mom. It was unpleasant, but we both agreed that it was better this way. Better to believe that he ran off into the night and never came back than to know he had died in the gutter in front of our house, less than a hundred feet from where they lay sleeping.
My father went inside and I drove off.
I felt drugged.
I could still drive, and I obeyed the speed limit and signaled like an automaton, not caring if there was anyone to warn with the blinking yellow taillight or not. Cruise control helped.
Hanging out at D’s house, smoking and crying, I reminisced. He was up anyway and more than willing to be a good friend. He listened and discussed. Talked about his own experiences, hugged me when I started to freak out again and gave me a shoulder to cry on.
It didn’t take long to realize that I wasn’t going to be okay with this.
I loved that cat. He deserved far better than a dumpster.
I couldn’t leave him there.
D said he knew a good spot for us to bury him if I was up for it. To me, there was no question; it had to be done.
We loaded a shovel into his car. He drove. I was in no condition to drive anymore.
We returned to the gated community and drove in. He said he’d drop me off on one side of the dumpster, then drive around to the other side so we could get going faster. I agreed.
In the low lighting, sifting through the dumpster wasn’t as hard as it could have been. I found the bag quickly, and felt a wave of sadness as I lifted it out, recognizing limbs and paws and head through the bag.
I felt less resistant somehow. I’d accepted it as reality, and what was happening wasn’t okay, but it needed to be done.
With renewed determination, I put my hand under his body and lifted him to give him more support. I got something on my hand, some mess I’d laid him onto when we’d left him there. Exasperated, I went to wipe it off on the dumpster, thinking for a moment that some kid had tossed their fries and ketchup without bothering to put it in a bag.
Then I realized it was blood.
His blood had soaked through the bag.
I couldn’t breath.
I stumbled back to the car as quickly as possible, not knowing what to say. I finally got, “His blood is soaking through the bag,” out of my mouth in a far more stable fashion than I felt. We placed him on a blanket in the trunk and got in the car. He drove slowly, asking if I was okay. I nodded, gulping back a gigantic knot in my throat. I looked at my hand and realized I still had most of the blood on it. I hurriedly told him to stop the car as I flung open the car door and poured water over my hand, trying to control my breathing again. It wasn’t as difficult this time, but I had to sit back in the car and stare straight ahead as D drove, nervously puffing on my cigarette.
My sister just got home with my mother. It’s 5:30 the evening after and I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to lie when the truth hurts this much. It’s hard enough to fight back the tears as she wanders around the backyard calling his name.
Listening to her talk to her friend, she’s already talking about how he might have been hit by a car on another street and there’s no way they would know. Somehow, somewhere in her heart, she already knows.
Last night, as I sat in the passenger’s seat of D’s car, smoking, trembling, I joked shakily, “That was really the last fucking thing I needed right now.”
We get to the hill. I recognize it. We’ve hiked up it before, with friends. It looks completely different under this context.
We get out and I bookmark the spot with the GPS on my phone. I don’t want to forget where this is.
He asks, “Do you want to carry the shovel, or-”
“I’m carrying the bag.”
“...Okay.”
We hike for fifteen minutes or so, an incline of easily forty-five degrees making the bag seem even heavier. All I could think was, “He always was the fatter one.” I smiled, reminiscing silently.
It was after three in the morning.
We walked a bit and found a good spot. A rock more than two feet wide sat nearby, perfect as a tombstone to stop animals from digging him up.
I started to dig. I was too exhausted to break through the sandstone about a foot down, so D took over for a bit to break the rock. I resumed after a while and continued to chip away at the sides until the hole was big enough.
We dug for as long as we’d hiked.
I quietly picked up the bag and lowered it into the grave. D watched somberly as I crouched beside it. Suddenly, the strength that the determination to finish this mission had lent me left me. The gravity of the situation overwhelmed me all over again.
This was my cat.
This was my friend.
This was one of the only things in my eternal maelstrom of a fucking life had always made me happy.
He always made me smile, he was always happy to see me, he was always ready to play. I could be a kid again around him, the simple delight of watching him wrestle his brother or play with a ribbon somehow entertaining enough of a vacation from the rest of my life to keep me busy for over an hour sometimes.
And now here I was. Lowering his lifeless body into the ground.
I ran my hand along his back one last time, feeling his soft fur through the plastic. I took a deep breath and got up. I picked up the shovel and started to bury him.
We made sure to cover him with as much of the stone as possible, just in case. I wanted to bring my sister back here soon; the last thing I wanted was to return and find it desecrated by coyote.
I watched him disappear under rock and dirt. I weakly tried to pack the soil, but I couldn’t stop crying. D told me to turn around, but I refused and told him to just do it. He insisted, I insisted back. He understood and took a deep breath, then started walking on the grave, resting his weight on it bit by bit and pushing down.
The dirt visibly compressed.
I didn’t react, internally or externally. I was just drained.
We finished, then dragged the large rock nearby onto the grave. Using D’s knife, I carved an “M” into the stone. Enough, and not obvious enough to encourage desecration by some shitheaded teenagers walking by. Hopefully.
We returned to his house. After spending a little more time, I headed home.
The puddle from the water we used to wash away his blood was still mostly there. The tuft of fur that my dad had tried to wash away was still around in bits and pieces. I scraped it away with my shoe, as I did with what remained of the coagulated blood in the street.
I passed out in my room.
I missed my chance to make up a statistics test today. I woke up half an hour after my last class would have ended.
I don’t particularly care right now.
First thing I did was go into the garage. Mushu was sitting on a box by the window, just chilling, as cats do. As soon as he noticed me, he came over to me and let me pick him up, purring as I carried him back in the house.
He had no idea what had happened.
He had no idea why I cried as I lay on the couch. He just curled up on my chest, purring as he snuggled his face into my neck. He eventually settled down and fell asleep, curled up in a little ball. Somehow, while still being absolutely devastated by this, reminded by the snoring little bundle on my chest of what was simply no longer around, I was comforted.
I still love my cats. And I still have my cat.
As I drifted off, that was all that mattered.
| | | Posted 3/9/2009 6:16 PM - 25 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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