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.
