I had to have Mischief euthanized yesterday. His kidneys failed and even with a ridiculously expensive surgery there wasn’t that great a chance. I went over to say goodbye and give him a few last kisses and hugs yesterday afternoon.
You think, when you are diagnosed with cancer, that at least there’s not much worse than can happen to you. But there always is, isn’t there? I feel detached now, like a balloon that just popped another hook holding me back from floating away. In the 11 years I had that cat he was a teddy bear, a therapist, a constant comfort, my best friend, and so much more — everyone who met him loved him and thought he was the most amazing cat they had ever seen.
And right when I need him the most, when everything else is going to shit around me, he’s randomly taken from me.
I think I’m in shock. My marriage has been pretty rocky since all of this started, and without a ton of close friends to lean on I’ve been forced to rely on whatever I could safely get to pull myself through the dark times. I could always count on Mischief’s purring or the feel of rubbing his neck fur to calm me down and balance things. There’s something to be said, a lot actually with a disease like this, to just have something that loves you for you and doesn’t care about anything else except to steal a little warmth and a head scratch.
Months ago I was having a beer with a friend on my back patio and talking about cancer and all of this, and we were talking about religion. Jim mentioned that he held out hope that when he died he’d be reunited with his deceased father. I never put much stock in stuff like that but I told Mischief last night, quietly, that if there is a place like that, and he can’t find anything better, that I hope I’ll get to have him fall asleep on my lap again someday.
Goodbye, little one. You were a better friend than I probably deserved but I will always appreciate that you shared your life with me, from the moment you picked me out at the DFL until we said goodbye.