“In my beginning is my end”, wrote T.S. Eliot. From the moment he walked into our lives nine years ago, his ending was certain. That was the only thing that was certain. Yet, I continue to resist this specific ending. I continue to mourn, five months to the day, his death. Depression has a particular form, a particular way of expression, I thought. It is sitting still and staring at the ceiling, immobile, it is the refusal to get out of bed, it is the inability to go about the business of living. When thoughts of him rush to fill every empty space in my brain, when with each breath I inhale, his memories are once again relived, I wonder if I I’m depressed. Active grief lasted about two months and this despair, this sense of loss, has been my companion since then.

We traveled to Kauai recently. With Shanthala in her advanced state of pregnancy, we stuck to little walks on the beach, short drives to nearby places and lots of time hanging out in the cottage, reading books and surfing the web. We took with us the trilogy of the adventures of Norton, the cat that went to Paris. I had a fervent wish to have Kitty travel with us, but he seemed discontent to roam and prefered the warmth of the hearth. We had a cat sitter visit him every day at home to feed him, pet him and clean his litter. We had hired a non-professional cat sitter who came highly recommended to us. She always mentioned how sweet Kitty was and how he loved to be petted. Once when she was unable to cat sit, she recommended her cat sitter to us, a professional. This lady left notes about her day with Kitty. Here are some entries:

“I have brought some fresh catnip for Kitty cat. He spends the whole time lying on it, rolling around on it and meowing at me as I sit on the couch watching him.”

“Today, Kitty cat followed me upstairs when I put down food. I just had to laugh; there I sat on the floor cross-legged next to his bowl. He ate, he rubbed against me for petting, I brushed him, he purred. If I stopped the attention, he looked at me like “More petting please”. Too funny. I’ve never taken care of a cat that has this habit.”

“He is so cute when he lays on that next-to-top step and sticks his head through the bars looking down at you”

“He loves laying on that rug in the living room and pulling himself around and being petted.”

He always knew when we would be traveling and he’d get very upset. Initially, he’d get very anxious too, probably from being abandoned by his previous owners. Later he just got upset. He wouldn’t let us touch him or pet him. When we were leaving, he’d hide under the bed and refuse to come out. When we returned, he’d show his anger by sitting in the same room as us, but at a little distance from us, with his back to us, complaining his meows every now and then. Attempts to touch him then were discouraged. He’d typically get over his anger in twenty minutes or so and then no amount of petting would be sufficient. He’d rub himself against us and be around me all the time. Unlike Norton and many of the other cats that I’ve heard about, he never once messed up the house to show his displeasure at being left behind, just the twenty minutes of his “back to us” routine.

This time, I took his collar with me to Kauai. No quarantines for you now, I said to myself. We arrived at our cottage around 3 PM and within a few minutes, a cat, a black and white tabby, stood at the back screen door, meowing very determinedly to be let in. We let him in and he wandered the cottage, exploring the place as if he was checking that we had not messed up the place yet. He talked as much as Kitty did, though his voice was not as mellifluous. He let us pet him and soon vanished. We didn’t see him again till the day we were leaving. At 8:30 in the morning, he showed up again, this time at the front door. He let us pet him again before he went away. My brain cried out to ascribe meaning to these random events.

Norton suffered kidney failure too, but it was caught early enough that they put him on some saline drip twice a week to let him live long enough to die of cancer. Shanthala cried as she wondered why our vet had not prescribed the saline drip for Kitty. She has a colleague who has a cat with kidney failure but leading a normal life, thanks to the daily saline drip. I don’t know why our vet didn’t do this. It seems too late to matter now.

Kitty died again two weeks ago when I received a postcard from the vet, addressed to him, saying that it was time for his yearly shots. I have yet to call the vet and tell him that he’s dead.

Thus Nature spake — The work was done –
How soon my Lucy’s race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be. – William Wordsworth

Related posts:

1. A Month Later
2. An August Evening