“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” ~Dr.Seuss
This past November my flat mate got a kitten, a male, this in addition to the two cats she already owned. (Or who owned her. Cat owners understand.) I told her it was fine with me, but this was her cat, and I wouldn’t love it, that it wasn’t gaining access to my room, etc.
Oh, I can be so, so wrong.
I’ve always been a dog girl. Owned ‘em, raised ‘em, even showed them when a teenager.
I’m fine with cats, have had a couple over the years, but I’ve never had the kitten experience, the unfolding of fluff into a fully grown cat with a personality I helped shape.
Albert arrived at 8 weeks old, and could be held in your palm. Black with incredibly soft fur, he became a beautiful cat, intelligent, alert, accepted by the others, with a magnificent fluffy tail. He liked to fetch little tinfoil balls, prancing off with his prize to bury it in one of my shoes or under the couch.
Thursday night he took off. He’s an adolescent and spring scents were on the wind. He didn’t come home that night or the next day.
My roommate and I sense his demise. And so do the other cats.
Friday morning, searching for Albert to no avail, we were greeted with a dead mouse and baby bunny on the back deck. Bradley, 20 pounds of lean muscle and a born hunting machine, had brought us presents. The food chain in action. And Albert had most likely been at the wrong end of it.
Friday was a sad day.
Here’s the thing: I allowed my sadness. Didn’t try to hold it together or be productive, but also didn’t allow myself to fall apart. The situation was not something I could simply “fix.” It was out of my control.
So I simply grieved the loss of little Albert, a cat I swore I wouldn’t love—at one point sitting on the floor, crying, with one of the other cats, Kali (the Queen, and Bradley’s mother). Kali is not affectionate by any yardstick. She’ll tolerate, but rarely demonstrate, sustained tenderness.
But that day she let me hold her as I cried, and she gently licked my tears as they fell. This was extraordinary. And Bradley slept on the bed where Albert used to. All night. This, too, is very unusual.
Today I was back to myself, except not: I may not be a cat-person, but I’m no longer a dog-person.
Because I loved a little kitten named Albert, and he brought me great joy.
Which was—and is—enough to celebrate his life, and I am grateful to be able to write that.
Gratitude: The antidote for grief.
“There are no happy endings. Endings are the saddest part. So just give me a happy middle and a very happy start.” ~Shel Silverstein
