Last night as I went into my bedroom, Gracie perched on the end of my bed, waiting for me and L'Entourage des Chats that follows me everywhere. And then she was gone.
Passing through the living room, she curled into herself on the table beneath the window. And was gone.
I saw her so many times last night and this morning. I remind myself that this happened when Polly died. I still kept seeing her. I suppose it's because these were places where I expect to see her.
In the crush of cats that wakes me in the morning. In the swarm around my feet in the kitchen. Secure in that very small space between Mo and Gus. I look and see her.
And then she's not there.
She's welcome to stay as long as she likes, but I have a feeling she'll be moving on soon.
1 comment:
I only had 6, but when Wesa passed last year (very sudden onset, the crucial decision of trying to save her and letting her go, watching her suffer while tests were conducted, deciding to let her go before test results came back, wanting to toss myself off a cliff because there was a little hope in the actual results -- she didn't have the cancer we feared and the vet strongly suspected, but a systemic infection which might have been curable) I saw her all over. It didn't help that she was one of three tuxedo kitties in our group.
I saw her all over the place as we packed up the house to move. I missed her, even though she was not a cat who loved me, nor was she my favorite cat. Our first meeting, she decided to leave my lap in a leap that tore open my dress and left bloody scratches on my stomach.
I still get occasional glimpses of her, but now I know it is an illusion (Ben resembles her very much). I don't feel the guilt anymore, since she had given up before we had and we were holding on to her for ourselves, not her. Her chances even with treatment were less than 50% and would have sapped our financial resources significantly.
Accepting death is not something I do well, which is probably why I get so many lessons in it.
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