two years ago yesterday

Yesterday was my sadiversary. Like my December sadiversary, I found myself unable to blog about it on the actual date. Perhaps this is because I so often choose feeling drunk over feeling sad. While I know all too well how easy it is to drunk dial, I have learned it is a tad trickier to drunk post. In any case, it's now been two years and one day since I killed my cat.

Officially I considered yesterday a celebration of Fabe's life. I toasted his magnificent being, the heft of his body, the length of his tail, the aging of his distinguished whiskers. I heard again his impatient "harrumpfh," saw again his bored acceptance of my affection. I asked him again (always in Spanish) "cuantos besos quieres tu?" and I heard again his answer "zero" and replied (as usual) "cien?" I recounted his adventures and triumphs. I begged his forgiveness for the times I let him down.

I remember after he died I realized he had really had exactly 9 lives. I'm certain they're more meaningful to me than you, but since I am convinced I'm doomed to get Alzheimer's some day, here they are for the record:

• 1. abandoned by owners to be euthanized - presumably for anti-social behavior (1990)
• 2. kept at evil small town pet hospital, used as blood donor until considerably more anti-social - finally stolen/rescued by my sister (1991)
• 3. poisoned by incompetent pet sitter/unauthorized flea bomb, summer of love - hacking cough lingered for years (1992)
• 4. let out onto third story roof by brother - Billy swears it was Fabe's idea (1994)
• 5. bit on the ass by neighbor dog - scar the size of a quarter (1995)
• 6. trapped in neighbor's garage 3 days - Erik went searching door to door after I'd given up (1997)
• 7. threatened with "social consequences" for fecal incontinence (a.k.a. "poopetas") - turns out he didn't have sphincter failure, just an unfortunate reaction to a change in the menu... I'm sure I wouldn't have followed through with it anyway... (1998)***
• 7. dehydrated during do-over move from u-hell - the day I learned never to tow a car in 1st gear (1997)
• 8. developed stomatitis - had to have all his teeth pulled (1999)
• 9. developed squamous cell carcinoma - couldn't open his mouth to eat (2004)

I still feel guilty. Not for killing him, but for not killing him sooner. He couldn't eat. His eyeball had collapsed from the pressure of the abscess that grew behind it. I had him addicted to morphine. But I needed some time to get used to the idea of letting him go. He was okay with it, I think. He continued to worship the sun, he still watched the birds (though without depth perception, I suppose). He came home promptly for his fix. He let me sleep on the floor beside him (though he left in the night when I snored...). He'd sometimes purr. And when it was time, really time, we both knew.

My two new kitties insist it was a good thing that Fabe passed. They are enjoying his house, his furs, his hundred kisses. Today OC even enjoyed the company of a bird. I'm not sure if it is good or bad that he didn't kill it right away. I woke up to the familiar sound of too much fun and intervened. It was ultimately able to fly away, but is it dying somewhere now of an infection?

Anyway, I know that OC and Pequeno are right. And I know that I should be appreciating them as in a dozen years or so I will be toasting to their memory... (maybe even sooner in OC's case as I calculate he's already used at least 3 lives...) And so I'm glad my sadiversary has passed. But I'm also glad I had such a great cat to be sad about in the first place.




***The poopeta story, though deleted, deserves further explanation. I've crossed it out not only because Erik came home and remembered a much more legitimate near death cat experience, but because I really wasn't all that close to killing Fabe in the first place. I was frustrated, yes, and disgusted, for sure. And desperate, even. Definitely desperate. But murderous, not quite. In fact, I was appalled to learn, after consulting my veterinarian sister about the alarming number of pellet sized cat turds I had begun to find in the house, that cats with sphincter problems often suffered "social consequences" for their incurable fecal incontinence. After a few weeks of poopetas, though, I must admit I had begun to have some insight into the phrase "social consequences." Indeed, I would often blurt it out when stumbling across yet another tiny turd as I shuffled through the darkness towards the toilet, half asleep. All too often a poopeta would be left in my lap after a love session, an accidental token of affection. So often that Fabe was exiled from my lap. I lived in fear of the poopeta. I calculated the likelihood that the next poopeta would find a way to touch my now watchful body and the odds were high. Imagine my guilt when I realized the poopetas were all my fault. I had, for whatever no good reason, recently switched cat food brands. This, like towing a car in first gear, is apparently not a good idea. The sad thing was that switching back was equally confusing for his delicate constitution so the solution to the onslaught was slow in coming. In any case, eventually my cat's digestive track was returned to normal and he was spared the social consequences of my actions.