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chrystallineI'm feeling a little better now; I think I can actually talk about this now.
I've known for a long time that I would lose Boo soon enough. I was always so proud of her for being so long-lived; it was always great fun telling people how old she was and watching their stunned reactions. I was proud of her for being an excellent hunter of mice and birds and the occasional rabbit, even if I did throw away the ones she decided to bring to me instead of eating them herself. The average outdoor cat lives two years - she made it twelve before I brought her indoors to protect her from antagonistic toms. She was tough, never crying when she'd managed somehow to get a thorn through her eyelid and scratched her eyeball or when she was hobbling around with a dislocated knee. The abscess on the base of her tail from the tom who attacked her on the front porch was what persuaded me to make her an indoor cat, and as I tended it with hot water compresses to drain the vile fluid, she would cry only a little, but she never struggled, knowing I was doing the best I could to help her. She wasn't very talkative, but she'd murmur a happy greeting when she was ready to cuddle. She was with me through elementary school, when my classmates hated me and made my life miserable. I could come home from school and hold her, and she'd purr and nuzzle my face like she knew how I felt and didn't mind my tears on her fur. She was there for me when that same ostracism intensified in junior high and high school. She was angry with me for leaving her behind when I went away to college, but she came with me for grad school. She was starting to have trouble then, no longer being able to easily jump up on my bed, and I gave her a step-stool to help her after catching her slipping off the edge one too many times. She went with me to Los Angeles, and provided an anchor of normalcy in what is, quite frankly, an insane city. She came back to Huntsville with me, and I was afraid for her - she caught a cold at the vet's while I was driving back across country - but with extra care, she got better. She stopped being able to handle even the stepstool, but I was willing to accommodate her needs - I gave her one of my old blankets on the floor, and got her a shallow-entrance litterbox. The vet prescribed hydration injection, but she fought it so strongly, I couldn't force her to live longer than she would in a way she hated. In the end, that's what I couldn't escape.
Tuesday night she threw up twice and left a mess on the floor just outside of the litterbox. She hadn't finished the food in her food bowl, but she was crying in the way she always did when her food bowl was empty and she was hungry. I had to clean up the mess first, but then I followed her and tried to figure out what was wrong; other than watching her leave puddles in a few more inappropriate places, I couldn't see anything specific that I could fix. I finished cleaning up the new messes and got ready for bed - I had a lunchtime meeting on Wednesday that I couldn't miss, and I needed to sleep. Sleep didn't come very quickly, and it was frequently interrupted - she kept crying randomly during the night, and I just knew it was time. I didn't want to admit it, and I can't say why I was so sure of it, but I was horribly certain. I wept into my pillow, begging God not to make me do this, not this decision, just please, if it's time, take her in her sleep, please.
She woke me early, crying again, and this time her food bowl was almost empty, so I tried giving her fresh food and a different bowl of water. She went for it so quickly that I dared to hope, but I was forced to reconsider when she started yowling again as I prepared to leave for my meeting. I had to fight yawns all through the meeting (which wasn't boring at all, but I hadn't slept well) and then I had several errands to run - getting groceries and library books. I was running the cold groceries into the house and Boo was yowling again. Still. I went to see if there was anything I could fix, and accidentally knocked her over with the childgate I've used for the last five years to keep her from roaming the whole house (allergies in family members/roommates). She tried to get out of the room, though where she thought she was going, I have no idea. She'd tried that a time or two Tuesday night, too. At any rate, there were more puddles on the floor, and instead of drinking the fresh water, she'd managed to tip it over on her blanket. I called the vet and asked for the earliest possible appointment, and they said, 'Well, the best we can do is if you come right now.' I said okay. I threw the freezer stuff in the freezer, and some of the fridge stuff in the fridge (though I missed a few things in my haste) and packed Boo in her carrier and hurried off to the vet.
I had to wait a minute or two when I got there, because it was an unscheduled thing. A woman with three unruly kids was in the lobby and they stopped me to ask "What's in there?" They wanted to see the kitty in the carrier and asked what color she was, because the carrier was black, too, and they could hardly see her. Of course, at that point they were holding me up, so I mentioned that Boo wasn't feeling well, and she told the kids to back off and let me go. One of the vet assistant/techs (who may have introduced herself by name, I don't remember) had me meet her in the exam room so she could weigh Boo and take her temperature. Now, Boo has always objected to thermometers more than anything else, but this time she barely twitched and didn't make a sound. That was a bad sign. Her weight was okay; lower than her prime, but higher than it was when she was ill before. She trimmed Boo's claws, which had become longer than usual, and told me the vet would probably want to do bloodwork. I was hesitating on that, because I remember the last time Boo had to have bloodwork - they tried to draw the blood from her neck, and she pulled back and snarled at them in a way I've never seen her do with people before or after that - but it was the only way to get any answers. He gave her an anti-nausea injection and 300ml of fluids, and this time they shaved part of her leg to draw the blood; it refused to clot - kept oozing slightly, no matter how many times we dabbed at it, and left some dramatic bloodstains on my hands. They said it would be about an hour to do the bloodwork, so I waited with Boo and tried to comfort her. I called Mom to let her know I was at the vet's with Boo, and she asked if she needed to get off work early to come pay the bill. I figured we could handle it the way we did everything else and told her I'd keep her informed. Boo kept getting up, which made the needleprick on her leg start welling up again, and she kept trying to figure out how to get down off the table. She also yowled a lot more than was normal, which was distressing. (The three unruly children were an almost constant disturbance for the whole exam period, and the tech was even more irritated by it than I was - she used Boo as a convenient excuse for telling them to be quiet: "There's a sick cat over there! Hush!")
When the results came back, they were not good. She had beginning kidney failure before, which was why she was on a special diet already, but now it was worse. On top of that, she had liver failure and Type 2 Diabetes. The vet explained that regulating the blood sugar of a diabetic cat is a trial-and-error process, requiring regular blood drawing, insulin injections, and constant monitoring. He also said it was almost impossible to manage in a young cat without liver and kidney problems, and frankly, it wasn't going to get better. I felt horribly selfish thinking about how I couldn't possibly afford the time to spend every day monitoring her blood sugar, but I just couldn't be the one to bring up euthanasia. Grasping at straws, I said something about basically only being able to make her comfortable for her last days. He got a strange look on his face and said he usually preferred it to be the owner's decision, but the humane thing would be to put her to sleep. He said she was practically comatose already, and it would be kindest to let her go. I felt terrible, but admitted that I've known for a long time that I would eventually have to let her go, and even though I didn't want to lose her, I couldn't torment her by keeping her in constant pain. At that point, I broke, and laid my head on the table by Boo's and started crying.
The assistant, who had told me earlier about her 17-year-old cat, offered to let me take Boo home overnight and bring her back in the morning, but I wouldn't have had the nerve to come back a second time. Worse, I was imagining her cries of pain all night, and I couldn't do that to my baby. I loved her too much for that, even though I was really starting to regret that I hadn't spent more time with her in the last few weeks. I had to sign the paperwork authorizing this, and it was the most awful thing. It's just paper, but at the same time, it's not. The assistant asked if there was anyone who could come to be with me for this, so I called Mom and asked her to come. I didn't explain; I was too choked up already. They gave me until closing time to hold Boo and try to figure out how to say goodbye; she kept perking up occasionally, with intelligence shining in her eyes, and I had the wild hope that maybe they were wrong - she's not comatose, she's aware, maybe... Then she'd howl again, and I had to admit to myself that she was still in pain. Mom came in at some point, and they asked about burial/cremation options - Mom asked if Dad would be willing to bury Boo in the backyard, where we always buried out other pets, and I said I thought he would. I absolutely did not want Boo to be cremated in a mass burial with a bunch of other cats and dogs. She hated other cats and dogs. Mom didn't want to pay almost $150 for private cremation. So, we told them we'd bury her at home.
Given the choice to stay or go, I couldn't bear to leave her alone in her last moments, so I held Boo's head and petted her constantly, even as she kept trying to pull her leg away. Mom stood behind me with her hands on my shoulders. They explained that sometimes pets can sound like they're moaning after they die, because there's still air in their lungs, and Mom mentioned that my uncle had been so freaked out by that when he had to put down his dog (due to cancer) that he'd sworn he'd never get another dog. I don't know if I'll ever forget the horrible moment Boo stopped pressing against my hand on her chin and her head fell back, eyes still half-open, and the vet got the stethoscope to check for a heartbeat before he told me she was gone. I leaned back against my Mom and shattered; she held me while I bawled against her chest and the vet and assistant wrapped Boo's body in a towel and placed it in a cardboard carrybox for transport home. Mom asked if I'd be able to drive home, and I said that I thought I could "not think about it" long enough to get home, but I couldn't be the one to carry Boo's box. She got Boo, and I took the empty cat carrier. The assistant with the 17-year-old cat wept with me and hugged me, and some tiny corner in the back of my mind wondered what her name was. I didn't look around at all on the way out, being preoccupied with getting home before I fell apart completely. I was wrong about being able to "not think about it" but I did manage to get home without incident, tears notwithstanding. When Dad got home, Mom asked him to bury Boo; he wanted to bury her in the abandoned vegetable garden in the shady, weed-choked corner of the yard, but I didn't want that. I wanted her to be buried at the base of a tree, so that she'd have a natural marker that wouldn't just fade away; trees last a lot longer than most private grave markers. It was quite dark by the time he finished, and he told me where to find her when I was ready to go out there. He said he never wanted to go through this again, and I bristled. Mom pointed out later that he had cared about Boo, too, and he was distressed by my grief - he's just not good at expressing sensitivity.
I had never known that it was possible to cry until your eyes refuse to focus, but I had done it. My contacts felt like I'd been wearing them for two days instead of just one, and I couldn't really see anything. Thursday, I slept in, and when I got up, I couldn't figure out what to do with myself. I didn't bother with contacts, and couldn't focus my mind on anything. I was still miserable, and I wanted to destroy the planet because the pain was just too much. Knowing this was coming didn't make it any easier, and this had to be the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my entire life.
Mom called Thursday afternoon to see how I was doing; I told her I was lost. She asked if I'd put on my sad music (because I have a lot of sad music my brother calls "morbid" and I have a tendency to like playing music that suits my mood) and I admitted that I hadn't felt up to putting any music on at all. The house was silent, and I knew that was a bad sign, because for me? That's not normal.
I'd tried to call Arian on Wednesday night, but she wasn't home; she called me back Thursday night because she'd seen my number on the caller ID - she hadn't heard the message (which, admittedly, wasn't the most informative message ever, but the way my voice broke at the end might've told her something was wrong). It didn't take long, though - after her cheery, "What's up?" I stammered, "I...it's Boo," and couldn't finish, and she got it immediately. She lost her childhood cat similarly a few years ago, so she knew how it felt, and she'd actually known Boo for a little while when I was in grad school. She cried with me and offered condolences and empathy and advice on things that helped her cope with it, and even managed to make me laugh. We agreed that God has to let our cats wait for us in heaven - He never said they weren't, and since He gave the such distinctive personalities, I can't imagine not having cats in heaven. That, and I don't think I can bear the idea of never seeing Boo again. On her recommendation, I'm planning to dig up all the pictures of Boo that I can find (wish I'd taken more, but it's incredibly difficult to photograph a black cat) and make an album or movie of them; Boo deserves that. By the time she had to go get ready for bed, I was feeling enough better to turn on my music and use my headphones, so it was progress.
Usually Mom and I have lunch together on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but this Thursday I wasn't up to going anywhere, so Mom was thinking we could have lunch together on Friday. Unfortunately, the washer repairman, whom we'd had to schedule a week and a half in advance, chose lunchtime to show up at our house. So, I didn't get to go to lunch with Mom. So, about an hour after the repairman left, I was checking LJ and thinking about responding to the kind comments on my last post, when the Hitler kitty pictures triggered an overwhelming need to cuddle with a cat, so I went downstairs to see if Wyberd, the big gray idiot, was in the basement where he belonged. He wasn't. He was in the garage, and I had to coax him back into the basement, and I was just getting ready to pick him up when the doorbell rang, followed immediately by pounding on the door. Puzzled, I awkwardly stepped over Wyberd (the Whiner) and Smokey (Dad's psychocat, who's nearly blind and will slash me for brushing my skirt too close to her face) and ran up to the front door. There was a guy standing there with flowers; I stared at him like an idiot. He said, "Flowers for Crystal-line?" I stared at the card, which said "Chrystalline Lauryl and family" and nodded at him. He handed them to me and dashed off. Feeling pretty stupid, and reeling from the "who would send me flowers?" question, I pulled the card (in a lavender envelope!) out of the plastic fork they use for such things, and turned it over - the vet's address was on the back. The vet's office all signed a condolence card and sent me flowers.
When Mom called to talk about the washer repair, I mentioned the flowers, and she told me that I'd had practically everyone in the vet's office in tears Wednesday night. I said I hadn't meant to; Mom laughed a little and said it would have been some really impressive acting if it had been intentional. Despite bawling in a way that would garner eyerolls if it were part of a TV show or movie, I'd apparently managed to reduce every woman in the office to tears - Mom wasn't sure about the vets themselves (they're both male, though the younger one did say he was sorry to hear that it was time) but every woman she saw was sniffly and red-eyed. The card and flowers are probably something they do for everyone who has to have a pet put to sleep, but it was nice of them to do.
I did cuddle with Wyberd, who was surprised but pleased to get the attention (the only reason he's "mine" is that no one else wanted him - for years he's been "the dog's cat") and Smokey insisted on brushing up against me, too. Wyberd didn't quite know how to handle being held so close, or being cried on, but he didn't really struggle, either. He's too big to fit well on my lap, but we made do. He won't fill the hole left by Boo's absence, but holding him made the wound a little less raw. He's not nearly as smart as she was, and I'll always miss that, but he is pretty, in his own way, even if he won't shut up!
I'm still depressed; I've worked my way up from the pits of despair to just depressed, but I'm making progress, starting to be able to function again. I have cleaning to do - some routine, some clearing out Boo's things. Mom and Dad are supposed to attend a wedding, which should give me some time to do some of that without interference. It's going to take time; I keep forgetting, just long enough to have the remembering be painful all over again. I'll notice that the childgate isn't across the doorway and think, 'Uh oh, I left it open, she'll get out into the living room' and then it's a shock to remember - no, she won't. I still cry at random moments. Boo was my dearest and best friend in the whole world. At the moment, the only person who stands a chance of having the same impact is my Mom - the rest of my family was not as close to me as Boo was - and it's still the hardest thing I've ever had to do.
I've known for a long time that I would lose Boo soon enough. I was always so proud of her for being so long-lived; it was always great fun telling people how old she was and watching their stunned reactions. I was proud of her for being an excellent hunter of mice and birds and the occasional rabbit, even if I did throw away the ones she decided to bring to me instead of eating them herself. The average outdoor cat lives two years - she made it twelve before I brought her indoors to protect her from antagonistic toms. She was tough, never crying when she'd managed somehow to get a thorn through her eyelid and scratched her eyeball or when she was hobbling around with a dislocated knee. The abscess on the base of her tail from the tom who attacked her on the front porch was what persuaded me to make her an indoor cat, and as I tended it with hot water compresses to drain the vile fluid, she would cry only a little, but she never struggled, knowing I was doing the best I could to help her. She wasn't very talkative, but she'd murmur a happy greeting when she was ready to cuddle. She was with me through elementary school, when my classmates hated me and made my life miserable. I could come home from school and hold her, and she'd purr and nuzzle my face like she knew how I felt and didn't mind my tears on her fur. She was there for me when that same ostracism intensified in junior high and high school. She was angry with me for leaving her behind when I went away to college, but she came with me for grad school. She was starting to have trouble then, no longer being able to easily jump up on my bed, and I gave her a step-stool to help her after catching her slipping off the edge one too many times. She went with me to Los Angeles, and provided an anchor of normalcy in what is, quite frankly, an insane city. She came back to Huntsville with me, and I was afraid for her - she caught a cold at the vet's while I was driving back across country - but with extra care, she got better. She stopped being able to handle even the stepstool, but I was willing to accommodate her needs - I gave her one of my old blankets on the floor, and got her a shallow-entrance litterbox. The vet prescribed hydration injection, but she fought it so strongly, I couldn't force her to live longer than she would in a way she hated. In the end, that's what I couldn't escape.
Tuesday night she threw up twice and left a mess on the floor just outside of the litterbox. She hadn't finished the food in her food bowl, but she was crying in the way she always did when her food bowl was empty and she was hungry. I had to clean up the mess first, but then I followed her and tried to figure out what was wrong; other than watching her leave puddles in a few more inappropriate places, I couldn't see anything specific that I could fix. I finished cleaning up the new messes and got ready for bed - I had a lunchtime meeting on Wednesday that I couldn't miss, and I needed to sleep. Sleep didn't come very quickly, and it was frequently interrupted - she kept crying randomly during the night, and I just knew it was time. I didn't want to admit it, and I can't say why I was so sure of it, but I was horribly certain. I wept into my pillow, begging God not to make me do this, not this decision, just please, if it's time, take her in her sleep, please.
She woke me early, crying again, and this time her food bowl was almost empty, so I tried giving her fresh food and a different bowl of water. She went for it so quickly that I dared to hope, but I was forced to reconsider when she started yowling again as I prepared to leave for my meeting. I had to fight yawns all through the meeting (which wasn't boring at all, but I hadn't slept well) and then I had several errands to run - getting groceries and library books. I was running the cold groceries into the house and Boo was yowling again. Still. I went to see if there was anything I could fix, and accidentally knocked her over with the childgate I've used for the last five years to keep her from roaming the whole house (allergies in family members/roommates). She tried to get out of the room, though where she thought she was going, I have no idea. She'd tried that a time or two Tuesday night, too. At any rate, there were more puddles on the floor, and instead of drinking the fresh water, she'd managed to tip it over on her blanket. I called the vet and asked for the earliest possible appointment, and they said, 'Well, the best we can do is if you come right now.' I said okay. I threw the freezer stuff in the freezer, and some of the fridge stuff in the fridge (though I missed a few things in my haste) and packed Boo in her carrier and hurried off to the vet.
I had to wait a minute or two when I got there, because it was an unscheduled thing. A woman with three unruly kids was in the lobby and they stopped me to ask "What's in there?" They wanted to see the kitty in the carrier and asked what color she was, because the carrier was black, too, and they could hardly see her. Of course, at that point they were holding me up, so I mentioned that Boo wasn't feeling well, and she told the kids to back off and let me go. One of the vet assistant/techs (who may have introduced herself by name, I don't remember) had me meet her in the exam room so she could weigh Boo and take her temperature. Now, Boo has always objected to thermometers more than anything else, but this time she barely twitched and didn't make a sound. That was a bad sign. Her weight was okay; lower than her prime, but higher than it was when she was ill before. She trimmed Boo's claws, which had become longer than usual, and told me the vet would probably want to do bloodwork. I was hesitating on that, because I remember the last time Boo had to have bloodwork - they tried to draw the blood from her neck, and she pulled back and snarled at them in a way I've never seen her do with people before or after that - but it was the only way to get any answers. He gave her an anti-nausea injection and 300ml of fluids, and this time they shaved part of her leg to draw the blood; it refused to clot - kept oozing slightly, no matter how many times we dabbed at it, and left some dramatic bloodstains on my hands. They said it would be about an hour to do the bloodwork, so I waited with Boo and tried to comfort her. I called Mom to let her know I was at the vet's with Boo, and she asked if she needed to get off work early to come pay the bill. I figured we could handle it the way we did everything else and told her I'd keep her informed. Boo kept getting up, which made the needleprick on her leg start welling up again, and she kept trying to figure out how to get down off the table. She also yowled a lot more than was normal, which was distressing. (The three unruly children were an almost constant disturbance for the whole exam period, and the tech was even more irritated by it than I was - she used Boo as a convenient excuse for telling them to be quiet: "There's a sick cat over there! Hush!")
When the results came back, they were not good. She had beginning kidney failure before, which was why she was on a special diet already, but now it was worse. On top of that, she had liver failure and Type 2 Diabetes. The vet explained that regulating the blood sugar of a diabetic cat is a trial-and-error process, requiring regular blood drawing, insulin injections, and constant monitoring. He also said it was almost impossible to manage in a young cat without liver and kidney problems, and frankly, it wasn't going to get better. I felt horribly selfish thinking about how I couldn't possibly afford the time to spend every day monitoring her blood sugar, but I just couldn't be the one to bring up euthanasia. Grasping at straws, I said something about basically only being able to make her comfortable for her last days. He got a strange look on his face and said he usually preferred it to be the owner's decision, but the humane thing would be to put her to sleep. He said she was practically comatose already, and it would be kindest to let her go. I felt terrible, but admitted that I've known for a long time that I would eventually have to let her go, and even though I didn't want to lose her, I couldn't torment her by keeping her in constant pain. At that point, I broke, and laid my head on the table by Boo's and started crying.
The assistant, who had told me earlier about her 17-year-old cat, offered to let me take Boo home overnight and bring her back in the morning, but I wouldn't have had the nerve to come back a second time. Worse, I was imagining her cries of pain all night, and I couldn't do that to my baby. I loved her too much for that, even though I was really starting to regret that I hadn't spent more time with her in the last few weeks. I had to sign the paperwork authorizing this, and it was the most awful thing. It's just paper, but at the same time, it's not. The assistant asked if there was anyone who could come to be with me for this, so I called Mom and asked her to come. I didn't explain; I was too choked up already. They gave me until closing time to hold Boo and try to figure out how to say goodbye; she kept perking up occasionally, with intelligence shining in her eyes, and I had the wild hope that maybe they were wrong - she's not comatose, she's aware, maybe... Then she'd howl again, and I had to admit to myself that she was still in pain. Mom came in at some point, and they asked about burial/cremation options - Mom asked if Dad would be willing to bury Boo in the backyard, where we always buried out other pets, and I said I thought he would. I absolutely did not want Boo to be cremated in a mass burial with a bunch of other cats and dogs. She hated other cats and dogs. Mom didn't want to pay almost $150 for private cremation. So, we told them we'd bury her at home.
Given the choice to stay or go, I couldn't bear to leave her alone in her last moments, so I held Boo's head and petted her constantly, even as she kept trying to pull her leg away. Mom stood behind me with her hands on my shoulders. They explained that sometimes pets can sound like they're moaning after they die, because there's still air in their lungs, and Mom mentioned that my uncle had been so freaked out by that when he had to put down his dog (due to cancer) that he'd sworn he'd never get another dog. I don't know if I'll ever forget the horrible moment Boo stopped pressing against my hand on her chin and her head fell back, eyes still half-open, and the vet got the stethoscope to check for a heartbeat before he told me she was gone. I leaned back against my Mom and shattered; she held me while I bawled against her chest and the vet and assistant wrapped Boo's body in a towel and placed it in a cardboard carrybox for transport home. Mom asked if I'd be able to drive home, and I said that I thought I could "not think about it" long enough to get home, but I couldn't be the one to carry Boo's box. She got Boo, and I took the empty cat carrier. The assistant with the 17-year-old cat wept with me and hugged me, and some tiny corner in the back of my mind wondered what her name was. I didn't look around at all on the way out, being preoccupied with getting home before I fell apart completely. I was wrong about being able to "not think about it" but I did manage to get home without incident, tears notwithstanding. When Dad got home, Mom asked him to bury Boo; he wanted to bury her in the abandoned vegetable garden in the shady, weed-choked corner of the yard, but I didn't want that. I wanted her to be buried at the base of a tree, so that she'd have a natural marker that wouldn't just fade away; trees last a lot longer than most private grave markers. It was quite dark by the time he finished, and he told me where to find her when I was ready to go out there. He said he never wanted to go through this again, and I bristled. Mom pointed out later that he had cared about Boo, too, and he was distressed by my grief - he's just not good at expressing sensitivity.
I had never known that it was possible to cry until your eyes refuse to focus, but I had done it. My contacts felt like I'd been wearing them for two days instead of just one, and I couldn't really see anything. Thursday, I slept in, and when I got up, I couldn't figure out what to do with myself. I didn't bother with contacts, and couldn't focus my mind on anything. I was still miserable, and I wanted to destroy the planet because the pain was just too much. Knowing this was coming didn't make it any easier, and this had to be the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my entire life.
Mom called Thursday afternoon to see how I was doing; I told her I was lost. She asked if I'd put on my sad music (because I have a lot of sad music my brother calls "morbid" and I have a tendency to like playing music that suits my mood) and I admitted that I hadn't felt up to putting any music on at all. The house was silent, and I knew that was a bad sign, because for me? That's not normal.
I'd tried to call Arian on Wednesday night, but she wasn't home; she called me back Thursday night because she'd seen my number on the caller ID - she hadn't heard the message (which, admittedly, wasn't the most informative message ever, but the way my voice broke at the end might've told her something was wrong). It didn't take long, though - after her cheery, "What's up?" I stammered, "I...it's Boo," and couldn't finish, and she got it immediately. She lost her childhood cat similarly a few years ago, so she knew how it felt, and she'd actually known Boo for a little while when I was in grad school. She cried with me and offered condolences and empathy and advice on things that helped her cope with it, and even managed to make me laugh. We agreed that God has to let our cats wait for us in heaven - He never said they weren't, and since He gave the such distinctive personalities, I can't imagine not having cats in heaven. That, and I don't think I can bear the idea of never seeing Boo again. On her recommendation, I'm planning to dig up all the pictures of Boo that I can find (wish I'd taken more, but it's incredibly difficult to photograph a black cat) and make an album or movie of them; Boo deserves that. By the time she had to go get ready for bed, I was feeling enough better to turn on my music and use my headphones, so it was progress.
Usually Mom and I have lunch together on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but this Thursday I wasn't up to going anywhere, so Mom was thinking we could have lunch together on Friday. Unfortunately, the washer repairman, whom we'd had to schedule a week and a half in advance, chose lunchtime to show up at our house. So, I didn't get to go to lunch with Mom. So, about an hour after the repairman left, I was checking LJ and thinking about responding to the kind comments on my last post, when the Hitler kitty pictures triggered an overwhelming need to cuddle with a cat, so I went downstairs to see if Wyberd, the big gray idiot, was in the basement where he belonged. He wasn't. He was in the garage, and I had to coax him back into the basement, and I was just getting ready to pick him up when the doorbell rang, followed immediately by pounding on the door. Puzzled, I awkwardly stepped over Wyberd (the Whiner) and Smokey (Dad's psychocat, who's nearly blind and will slash me for brushing my skirt too close to her face) and ran up to the front door. There was a guy standing there with flowers; I stared at him like an idiot. He said, "Flowers for Crystal-line?" I stared at the card, which said "Chrystalline Lauryl and family" and nodded at him. He handed them to me and dashed off. Feeling pretty stupid, and reeling from the "who would send me flowers?" question, I pulled the card (in a lavender envelope!) out of the plastic fork they use for such things, and turned it over - the vet's address was on the back. The vet's office all signed a condolence card and sent me flowers.
When Mom called to talk about the washer repair, I mentioned the flowers, and she told me that I'd had practically everyone in the vet's office in tears Wednesday night. I said I hadn't meant to; Mom laughed a little and said it would have been some really impressive acting if it had been intentional. Despite bawling in a way that would garner eyerolls if it were part of a TV show or movie, I'd apparently managed to reduce every woman in the office to tears - Mom wasn't sure about the vets themselves (they're both male, though the younger one did say he was sorry to hear that it was time) but every woman she saw was sniffly and red-eyed. The card and flowers are probably something they do for everyone who has to have a pet put to sleep, but it was nice of them to do.
I did cuddle with Wyberd, who was surprised but pleased to get the attention (the only reason he's "mine" is that no one else wanted him - for years he's been "the dog's cat") and Smokey insisted on brushing up against me, too. Wyberd didn't quite know how to handle being held so close, or being cried on, but he didn't really struggle, either. He's too big to fit well on my lap, but we made do. He won't fill the hole left by Boo's absence, but holding him made the wound a little less raw. He's not nearly as smart as she was, and I'll always miss that, but he is pretty, in his own way, even if he won't shut up!
I'm still depressed; I've worked my way up from the pits of despair to just depressed, but I'm making progress, starting to be able to function again. I have cleaning to do - some routine, some clearing out Boo's things. Mom and Dad are supposed to attend a wedding, which should give me some time to do some of that without interference. It's going to take time; I keep forgetting, just long enough to have the remembering be painful all over again. I'll notice that the childgate isn't across the doorway and think, 'Uh oh, I left it open, she'll get out into the living room' and then it's a shock to remember - no, she won't. I still cry at random moments. Boo was my dearest and best friend in the whole world. At the moment, the only person who stands a chance of having the same impact is my Mom - the rest of my family was not as close to me as Boo was - and it's still the hardest thing I've ever had to do.
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-12 07:46 pm (UTC)btw, an LJ entry has never made me cry before. It was very sweet of the vets to send you flowers. I don't think they sent my grandma flowers when her cat died.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-12 08:19 pm (UTC)It's obvious in every single word of this post how much you loved her. She sounds like an absolutely wonderful kitty-sister.
I know how it is to forget and have those brief moments of panic or confusion when you see the door open, or the water bowl missing.
*more huggles*
Still praying for you...
Date: 2006-08-13 02:37 am (UTC)I'm so sorry for all you went through and for all Boo went through. May God grant you all peace and comfort.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-13 04:21 am (UTC)