Speaking Ill of the Dead

Last month one of my cats died.

The first few days after he passed, I couldn't stop crying. I actually made myself SICK I was crying so much. I had to take off work and everything.

Then, once the weekend was over, it was like someone had flipped a switch. By the end of the following week it was business as usual. It was as if he had been gone for years instead of days.

I barely noticed his absence.

I told myself that if I didn't have the other cats, his absence would probably be much more visceral.

I still miss him, and I often look at the spot in the back yard where he is buried. I think that knowing he's there helps, but I don't feel the incredible sense of loss that I thought I would.

Maybe it's because he was so old. He was 18 by the time he passed and I had pretty much started preparing for it a year before. He was also getting sick. He had started slowing down, getting quieter and strange things were happening with his skin in the last few months, so I knew it was a matter of time.

But there was something else as well.

Loki was a challenging cat. He was very needy -- the kind of cat that needed to be pet all the time. Just chilling on the couch next to you wasn't enough, he needed your UNDIVIDED ATTENTION. His favorite time for attention was 4AM, when I was in a dead sleep. And he wouldn't just meow to get it either. He would head butt and, when that didn't work, resort to scratching and biting.

Challenging.

But I could handle the nocturnal interruptions. What really had me on edge was the inappropriate peeing. He had his spots and he used them religiously despite my best efforts. Near the end it was probably due more to his not being able to get to the box in time. But he was peeing and pooping outside the box long before that.

See, he had to share a house with two other cats -- something that irked the hell out of him from day one. Even before I got the other cats, I had a boyfriend and Loki would get into our bed and while he was head butting me (and I was giving him attention) he was peeing on the boyfriend.

Forget challenging, Loki was an asshole.

I loved him dearly but there were also times that I wanted to drop-kick him into the next county. Hell, there were times where I always did. I remember one time I got so fed up with him peeing in my living space (and even my bed) that I started putting him outside at night.

I don't put my cats outside. I'm always afraid they'll get hit by a car or eaten by coyotes (in the middle of my city in the Midwest) that I just can't -- which is probably why all my cats are well into their 80s in human years.

Loki, I put outside. And instead of losing sleep wondering where he was going to pee or poop next, I lost sleep wondering if he would make it home and listening for his meow or scratch at the front door.

I lost sleep if I spent the night away from home, worrying that he was going to take it out on me by peeing on my bed, or on that one spot on the carpet.

I lost sleep worrying that my landlord would get pissed at me. Then, when I got my own place, I lost sleep worrying that anyone who came over would smell my house and think that I was secretly hoarding 100s of cats in my basement.

I worried that if I bought a new couch, or a new bed, that Loki would pee on it and ruin it before I had the chance to enjoy it. I worried that if I put my computer tower on the floor, he would pee on it and ruin the components.

There was the time I had friends over, we sat and talked until the wee hours of the morning, and I crawled into bed, eyelids weighted down by anvils, to find my sheets sodden.

There were times when he would hunker down, in front of me, and let rip while staring right at me. There were times when I would be hugging and loving on him, half asleep and he would turn, raise his tail and pee ON ME.

When he wasn't peeing, or pooping, he was vomiting. I'd hear that familiar sump-pump sound and wonder where I was going to find my "gift" in the morning, while simultaneously thanking my lucky stars that at least he wasn't PEEING this time.

Did I mention that he was an asshole?

So, when Loki passed, as painful as it was, it was also as if a weight was lifted form my shoulders. Seriously, this may sound cliche but I actually felt lighter. I had a love/hate relationship with him, and a fear/rage relationship with his piss.

He died on a Thursday night and the following day, through the tears, I cleaned like crazy. On the one hand, I cleaned because he had been vomiting a lot the night before and I didn't want the messes he left to be the last reminders of him.

I also cleaned because I knew I could, and that it would stay that way. No more "presents" in the corner.

Since Loki's passing, I have also made some other changes. I quit a job that I shouldn't have taken in the first place. And I started getting offers for other work.

I mean, each day a new opportunity would just fall in my lap. It was crazy. I can't help but think that part of it had to do with Loki's passing.

I'm more relaxed than I was when he was around. The other two cats are more relaxed. Bart, the little one, sits next to me all the time, which he never used to do before.

Things are better with just the three of us.

It's sad and I feel really guilty saying it, but it was true. I loved Loki,
I'll never forget him and he taught me a lot those 18 years. I don't want to speak ill of him, but our relationship was difficult. I just didn't realize how much until he was gone.

He is at peace now. And so am I.