My cat died today. I know this is small and insignificant in the large scheme of universal affairs, but in my small and not so significant world, this matters. It matters for a lot of reasons. Norbert was the first pet Jason and I got when we moved in together. She has been with us through 9 years of our lives together. She was the first kitten we picked from her litter, she was all personality and attitude and she was probably the most fun pet we have ever owned. She was ours unconditionally. She loved no one in the same way as she loved us. And she loved no one in this world as much as she loved Jason. Even today, at the end of everything, she still tried to purr when he held her. She was our cat, and we loved her. And, at the end of everything, I wasn't there. I didn't get to see her. For the second time in my life I found myself painfully absent as someone I loved passed away. I was somewhere else, and I didn't get to say goodbye. And I know she was a cat, and I know I will get over it eventually, but it's just another reminder of losing someone or something I care about and not having a chance to say goodbye. Once again, I should have been there, and I wasn't. That hurts.
Now, tonight, as I sit here in my house it seems too quiet without her. Nothing has changed really, but somehow it feels like there's a hole in here somewhere. Everything feels too still, like the house is waiting for her. Fluffy is waiting for her. She has been wandering the house, meowing like she's lost something, and I can't help but feel awful because she doesn't understand. And, frankly, neither do I. It wasn't supposed to end the way it did. But at least I can intellectualize it. But it figures that if Norbert was going to go out, it wouldn't be quietly. It's fitting that she'd ride out on a hellish blizzard, wreaking havoc on the innocent. She had no intention of going quietly.
So, farewell my Stalinistic little kitty. Thanks for letting us have 9 years. Sorry I missed the last minutes.
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