Love is love.
Loss is loss.
Simple proclamations but powerfully true.
Maybe you won’t want to read this post? Maybe you think it is trivial and that I am naught but a cat woman mired in post-put-down personal pain–having offed our cat a week ago. But love is love—and there are two freshly broken hearts in our home; there is an absent imprint on the blanket and we are shattered.
Be free to read no more.
We were, last week, traipsing across the country in our Pontiac Sunfire: Toronto to Dawson City, 7,000 kilometres in a week, arriving to whoop it up in the land of gold when we learned that Oedipus, our cat, whom I found when he was four weeks old (abandoned, a mat of black fur pressed against a wall) was necessarily killed off.
We expressed to our poor, poor friends who so kindly carried out the nasty job at the vet, those two women who cared for our house and cat while we were away, as grateful a thank you as possible. Our cat’s illness was sudden, unexpected, and thankfully brief.
Love is love and loss is loss and this, my friends, is loss. This is grief as sure as grief can be. Every few hours I cry. At least three times a day I sob. Only Heather and I bear, in each other’s arms, the pain; only we know the shadow of his absence in our home since returning home yesterday.
Fifteen years ago I found this cat and, coincidentally, fifteen years ago Heather and I found each other.