I didn’t want to go home on Saturday. Call it avoidance. If I didn’t acknowledge it, it couldn’t possibly be true.
On Saturday morning we took our cat Shy Guy, who I call Mr. Kitty, to the vet to be put to sleep. He couldn’t walk, he could barely eat or drink, he wasn’t grooming himself. It was time. It was humane. I keep telling myself these things. At 13 he was an old man who had had a good life even with a diagnosis of meningioma, or growth in the lining of the brain, in February of 2016. He held steady in March but he went downhill rapidly in the following month of April. His death, and the decision I made to put him down, has hit me harder than I ever expected. I’ve felt more emotion over his death than the death of either of my parents. He was my kitty and I loved him and I am sad.
So we went to the house on Saturday and we got a lot done. We bought plants. We mulched. We finished raking and bagging the leaves in the back. We treated the lawn for weeds. We added lawn seed. We bought ferns for the porch. We edged the sidewalk. We removed weeds from between the cement slabs. We planted. We mulched. We finished the lattice work under the porch. We added barriers under the porch to prevent water run off. We finished removing the spray paint stain from the vinyl. Grief is a great motivator.
And despite all of this my cat is still gone.