I cried for my cat this week—but I cried about more than that, too.
We put my cat to sleep this week.
Our cat, Milo, honestly was not the nicest cat. Really, he wasn’t. He wasn’t cuddly. He wouldn’t jump on your lap and purr and snuggle. He lived to eat and loved his food more than anything else, so much that the vet always scolded us that he was too heavy. He used to come up behind my daughter in the mornings when she was getting ready for school and claw at her legs, occasionally drawing blood.
Milo came into our lives at a time of transition. My husband and I and our two children had moved back to California, where I grew up, from Ohio, where he grew up and had family. I never adjusted to life in Ohio as well as I had hoped. Maybe it had something to do with the conversation I inevitably had with folks after we arrived.
“Where are you from?” they would politely ask.
“California,” I replied.
Almost without exception there would be a beat of silence—then they would ask, “Why are you here?”
There were things I loved about Ohio. Our city library and its summer children’s reading program influenced my children in profound ways. They grew to be readers and still are. I wonder if the prizes they won helped foster that? Also, there were fireflies. They were magical and I adored them. The farm stands and the Happy Box of organic vegetables that was delivered to my apartment every Friday were also gifts. I think that was the first time I experienced kale, especially in such large quantities. There was a lot of kale in those boxes.
After a few years, it was time to move back to California. We landed at my parents’ house, the house where I grew up, which had five bedrooms and three bathrooms and was big enough for us and my parents, too. My daughter was starting fifth grade. She had never had a pet and desperately begged for one. To this day, she is persistent and negotiates patiently and skillfully to get what she wants.
She wanted a pet and a fish wouldn’t do. We settled on a cat.
We went to the local animal shelter and were ushered into a private room where we were introduced to cats. Milo was adorable, maybe four years old, the staff thought. He was cuddly and purred. Now, in retrospect, I know that Milo was just smart. He saw a way out of the shelter and romanced us into taking him home. My daughter promised to feed him, care for him, and take care of his litter box.
She did for a time. But eventually? Milo’s care fell to me. I cleaned his box, made his vet appointments, bought him a bright Birds Be Safe collar that supposedly would alert birds to his presence and save them from his cat nature.
Time passed, 15 years or so. Milo grew old, somewhere between seventeen and nineteen, and he didn’t seem to be enjoying his everyday activities anymore. Also, his care had become onerous. His kidneys were failing, so he drank water almost constantly. He suffered from diarrhea. I woke up every morning to a trail of kitty litter paw prints, from his litter box in the bathroom, through the kitchen, into the living room where his pillow was. Chunks of kitty litter hardened on his paws, and I had to gently and delicately pry them off for him since he wasn’t able to groom himself anymore.
We brought Milo to the vet to be put to sleep a few days ago. It took me a while, though, to finally mop the kitty litter paw prints off the floor. I didn’t want to let them go. His litter box was an extra-large one, tucked into a corner of the bathroom. It stayed there for a few days. We kept his pillow in the corner by the kitchen table where he used to rest.
Milo was ours through many pivotal times in my life. He arrived shortly after our move to California, a time that was full of hope and possibility. When we first got Milo, my mom and dad were still alive. My daughter was in elementary school. My son in first grade. I was still married. Milo’s departure feels like the end of an era. Like his presence was a link somehow to that past, which wasn’t necessarily easier—but it was different, with people I loved who were still with us. Now, all of that has changed. My parents passed away. The house where I grew up, Milo’s first home with us, was sold. My children are grown and getting on with their lives, as they should. My marriage ended.
Milo was there through all of it. Now he is gone, and I am still here. There is one less heartbeat in my house tonight. His loss brings back other old losses, making me mourn them all over again. So I am missing my mom tonight. My dad. The things that were good about my marriage. My kids. The house where I grew up. And now, along with all of this, I am missing and mourning my old cat.
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