How do you deal with the loss of something that has been in your life for 17 years?
My mom brought Oliver home at the end of Grade 7; a year end gift. His personality was evident from the beginning. He loved to cuddle and was always meowing. Always. When he wanted outside, when he wanted inside, when he wanted food, when he wanted to be held, when he wanted to be let down, when it was cold, when it was warm, when the temperature was perfect, when he was going to jump on the counter, when he was going to jump off the counter, and, my favourite, he wailed at me when I sang... I don't think he like it at all. It was when he stopped meowing at me that I knew he must be sick.
Seventeen years is a long time to have something in your life. For four years of his life, Oliver lived with my parents (two when I lived in an apartment that charged for pets and two when I lived in Toronto). Right now, those four years seem like a waste - time I could have had more cuddles, more nose boops, more meowing.Oliver has been with me through great times, laughing, enjoying life, puzzled by my robust love of cooking (and why he couldn't eat what I was making), and my swearing at video games and enjoying
the company when I shared my home with family and friends.
He's also been there through bad times. He was always there with a snuggle and purring when I was upset. He provided solace when my grand-aunt died and I needed a hug and some love. He was also there trough my most ridiculous crying session (like when I had to get my car fixed or when a book or show twinged my heart just right). Oliver didn't judge my quick to cry nature. He was just there.So it's hard when I feel this heartbroken to not have the companion I have always relied on for love and care.
It comes in waves. I'll be fine and then I'll remember something small. Something so ridiculous that
sets me off.
What hurts the most is that I'll never cuddle him again. that last cuddle came the night of Friday, December 2nd. I'll never hear him meow to welcome me home after work. That last meow came the afternoon of Thursday, December 1st. I now regret every time I didn't let him sleep with
me at night.
In the coming days, I'll remember all the little things fondly. I'll be thankful that I held him one last time and he purred. I'll be thankful that when the vet technician picked him up he meowed. These little memories will fill me with nostalgia and my heart will fill with love. But right now, all that's left of him is a reminder that he'll never be there again. Two bags of cat food that he'll never eat. A litter box that I still have to empty. A half full water dish in my bathroom to stop him from drinking from the toilet. Empty, echoing halls that will never be full of his meows again. He used to annoy the hell out of me every morning whining for food or a cuddle. Now I would give anything for that sound and annoyance again.
I didn't know what to expect when I told the vet I was ready to let him go. I knew he'd fall asleep first, so I held him. Kissed his head. Told him I loved him. I didn't know how quick it would be. He was there and then he wasn't. I think what broke me is that his head, unsupported by life, was heavier than I ever thought it would be. I'll never forget the weight of his head in my hand.
I love him so much and the rational person in me understands that it was his time and he was suffering in life. But humans aren't always rational and I am heartbroken.
