Do you think he'd put some back?
Nov. 22nd, 2005 11:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lenora_roseOh that's a hell of a way to sober up. It just occurred to me, with minutes to go in the night, that this is the anniversary of the death of Tuffles. Yes, of a cat, back in 2001. It shouldn't matter, right, this many years on?
Except my mood dropped from "yay, Harry Potter! Yay, silly Agincourt!" straight into tears. Real frustrating ones that make my hands shake.
Someone, somewhere, lost a mother on this day. Several of my co-workers have lost relatives lately. Moms. Nephews. Nieces. Fathers. Some have kin in hospital. Earlier today, one told me her mother wasn't expected to last the winter. Who am I to cry at four year old news? Why can't I count my blessings, my living human kin, my living cats? And yes, we have Élise and Irina, if i want furry friends.
I know why it matters. Each living being that dies that was precious to us should be mourned. Adn it's not like I've spent four years wearing black and bewailing my loss. IN fact, the main reason it hit so hard it that it occurred to me that I's almost forgotten the day. Last year, the year before, I acknowledged the day, but let it go at that.
Tuffles was part of our life for seventeen and a half years, in spite of at least two major close calls, one of which, being Diabetes. No cat we've had before or since has been as disobedient, as incorrigible, shed as badly, or thrown up as much.
Tuffles used to purr at the first stroke, purr LOUD (You would not believe how loud), and go on a half hour without further encouragement. And he'd interrupt his purr with yowls and mrowls, to make darn sure we knew he was happy. He'd steal any kind of food you could think of - you could not leave a muffin-wrapper in any accessible trash. he'd sit in anyone's lap. He made friends with the cat two doors down, was let in its owners' house, and fed tuna by them for months before we ever learned of his sneaking (this was after the diabetes - they thought he was the son of the fatter ginger-and-white they knew, since he'd lost so much weight before diagnosis. Fortunately, tuna was acceptable to his diet.)
Djelibhien was more my cat, but with her, I got my three wishes (Maybe when her death-day passes, I'll explain that. Not here in someone else's turn) and there was a good, real, proper, goodbye. Tuffles blindsided us, not because he wasn't having health problems, but because about two days before, DB went into the animal hospital with a problem that looked life-threatening (But wasn't), so all our attention was focused the wrong way. Tuffles was the one who crept into my dreams for many months after (With DB, there was one really bad, haunting dream, just to trip me up when I thought I was done with mourning. Tuffles kept on showing up.) I was there on the day, but still, I hadn't said goodbye. I didn't get the three wishes, or any other real bridge between the living, rambunctious in spite of diabetes and arthritis, purring, vivid fellow, and the ashes.
I know what triggered the reminder, too. On an impulse, I put on Kate Rusby's Hourglass. The first song is much fun, and at least as light as my last post. But it still smacked me up-side the head. This was the album I'd taken out of the library to try out a week or so after we put Tuffles to sleep. the right song at the right moment cracked the numbness. I bought it after Christmas, when I thought I could listen to it again (And I could, and I still do.) "I Am Stretched on Your Grave", with all its melodrama and poesie and Ballad-land unreality had just gone by, and I was feeling cynical about songs and mourning.
So I was totally disarmed for a quiet plea for time to run out less quickly. Smack. Crack. The numbness let go.
Except my mood dropped from "yay, Harry Potter! Yay, silly Agincourt!" straight into tears. Real frustrating ones that make my hands shake.
Someone, somewhere, lost a mother on this day. Several of my co-workers have lost relatives lately. Moms. Nephews. Nieces. Fathers. Some have kin in hospital. Earlier today, one told me her mother wasn't expected to last the winter. Who am I to cry at four year old news? Why can't I count my blessings, my living human kin, my living cats? And yes, we have Élise and Irina, if i want furry friends.
I know why it matters. Each living being that dies that was precious to us should be mourned. Adn it's not like I've spent four years wearing black and bewailing my loss. IN fact, the main reason it hit so hard it that it occurred to me that I's almost forgotten the day. Last year, the year before, I acknowledged the day, but let it go at that.
Tuffles was part of our life for seventeen and a half years, in spite of at least two major close calls, one of which, being Diabetes. No cat we've had before or since has been as disobedient, as incorrigible, shed as badly, or thrown up as much.
Tuffles used to purr at the first stroke, purr LOUD (You would not believe how loud), and go on a half hour without further encouragement. And he'd interrupt his purr with yowls and mrowls, to make darn sure we knew he was happy. He'd steal any kind of food you could think of - you could not leave a muffin-wrapper in any accessible trash. he'd sit in anyone's lap. He made friends with the cat two doors down, was let in its owners' house, and fed tuna by them for months before we ever learned of his sneaking (this was after the diabetes - they thought he was the son of the fatter ginger-and-white they knew, since he'd lost so much weight before diagnosis. Fortunately, tuna was acceptable to his diet.)
Djelibhien was more my cat, but with her, I got my three wishes (Maybe when her death-day passes, I'll explain that. Not here in someone else's turn) and there was a good, real, proper, goodbye. Tuffles blindsided us, not because he wasn't having health problems, but because about two days before, DB went into the animal hospital with a problem that looked life-threatening (But wasn't), so all our attention was focused the wrong way. Tuffles was the one who crept into my dreams for many months after (With DB, there was one really bad, haunting dream, just to trip me up when I thought I was done with mourning. Tuffles kept on showing up.) I was there on the day, but still, I hadn't said goodbye. I didn't get the three wishes, or any other real bridge between the living, rambunctious in spite of diabetes and arthritis, purring, vivid fellow, and the ashes.
I know what triggered the reminder, too. On an impulse, I put on Kate Rusby's Hourglass. The first song is much fun, and at least as light as my last post. But it still smacked me up-side the head. This was the album I'd taken out of the library to try out a week or so after we put Tuffles to sleep. the right song at the right moment cracked the numbness. I bought it after Christmas, when I thought I could listen to it again (And I could, and I still do.) "I Am Stretched on Your Grave", with all its melodrama and poesie and Ballad-land unreality had just gone by, and I was feeling cynical about songs and mourning.
So I was totally disarmed for a quiet plea for time to run out less quickly. Smack. Crack. The numbness let go.
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-23 02:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-24 07:30 pm (UTC)Tuffles' death was also around the start of the year which is in contention with the year I was 14 as the worst year of my life.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-24 07:47 pm (UTC)Light a candle for that dear kitty, call up those memories, and never, ever feel guilty for mourning an animal. They are precious lives, too.