[dropcap2 variation=”teal”]I[/dropcap2] can’t bring myself to clean the cat poop off the corner of the kitchen floor. Yes, it’s ridiculous. Yes, it’s unsanitary (though to be fair it’s in the corner near the garbage can). Yes, yes, yes.
Here’s the thing. If I clean the cat poop off the place where Norman used to hover while eating his food, it means he’s really gone. Truly and actually gone. Dead gone. And he is dead gone. But I still can’t bring myself to clean the cat poop off the kitchen floor. Not today anyway. Maybe tomorrow.
Norman was my cat for 12-plus of his 13 years. He bewitched me one February morning with his green eyes and his winning ways and I fell hard. I got two cats out of the bargain, since they wouldn’t let me adopt Mr. Kitty-Kitty without his brother, Gordon. It was a great deal — two love-bugs instead of one. I’d never had cats before Norman and Gordon, never knew the joys of a warm purring body to cuddle with.
Gordon was wonderful and I mourned him something awful when he died on Feb. 1, 2008. But Norman, well he was my cat. My soul-cat, if you will. The lap, the bed, the house all seem emptier now. I keep closing the door quickly to avoid letting the cat out — only to realize, once again, that now there is no cat.
For 12 years, I never cried at home without Norman there to comfort me. The death of my friends, the death of my relationships, the death of my father. He was there through it all. He was also there for the births — the birth of my marriage and of my daughter, the Z-Baby, who is now the Z-Toddler.
Norman loved me and I loved him. I loved him fiercely and unconditionally, like a cat momma should. And he loved me the same way. He claimed me whenever he could, lying between my Wonderful Husband and myself, body halfway on me, purring with his butt in WH’s face. Even when he became partly incontinent, we never barred him from the places he loved — the bed, the couch, the chair, the rugs. We just brought out washable blankets and bought out Costco’s supply of Clorox wipes. Norman slept at my feet most nights, though some times he slept on my chest.
He hated vacuum cleaners. The sound would make him run away. Catnip made him high. He was allergic to grains. He loved cheese and dairy, even though it was bad for him. He was the reason we kept the room-temperature butter in the microwave. Can’t tell you how many sticks I had to throw away because we forgot and, in the morning, found tiny lick marks.
Norman loved trying to get outdoors. Of course, once he was there, he would stop, almost as if it was too much to take in. Once in a while, less often than we could have, we would put him on a leash and let him wander the world a little. He found great joy in eating inappropriate bugs and leaves. He never actually ran away, ever, but we did lose him to the outdoors twice. The last time in the redwoods. He was found when we opened a can of tuna in the place we spotted him. He came immediately. That cat loved his tuna.
Norman also actually liked to dance. Technically, I did the dancing. I would pick him up and put him on my shoulder as we swayed to the music. We used to swing to Coltrane and rock out to Santana. But my favorite used to be dancing to Chet Baker’s “My Funny Valentine.” He would drape across me and purr and purr.
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When he was young and healthy, Norman was the craziest jumper cat I’d ever seen. He would do back flips and forward leaps trying to catch a ribbon toy. When he got sick, he stopped leaping, though he remained a strong jumper to the end.
He was the most patient cat to my child that I could have wanted or hoped for. When the Z-Baby cried, he would come check on her. When she tugged on him, he would ignore her. Not once, even when she accidentally hit a sore spot, did he ever take a swipe at her or bite her. He was the best kitty brother she could have asked for.
Death has been around every corner since he ate poisoned cat food five years ago, and he kept slinking out of its way. He bounced back and bounced back and made us believe that he would keep bouncing back. Then, suddenly, last week he stopped bouncing. He stopped eating, no amount of fluids or force-feeding was going to change that.
When he turned away even from tuna, I knew the time had come. That cat — he loved me to the end. His last day, though he was too skinny and low on energy and clearly in pain, he still jumped in my lap whenever he could, and he purred.
His last morning, he climbed up onto my chest while I lay in bed and he fell deeply asleep, his paw over my heart, my hand over his paw. I fell asleep too. We stayed like that for at least two hours and woke in the same positions. I wished he would have gone in his sleep in that moment when he was so happy.
That’s not to say his death wasn’t peaceful. It was. It just wasn’t easy. For me, not him. I know I did the right thing. I could see the relief in the vet’s face that I wasn’t going to insist on prolonging Norman’s suffering. But it was so hard to let him go.
Selfishly, I wanted more time. We had four years extra. Four years after a diagnosis (Chronic Renal Failure) that absolutely meant death. Four years where I begged him and treated him and cajoled him into living just a bit longer. It still wasn’t enough. I’m not sure it ever would have been.
I miss him. Someday I will get another cat. Someday I will love again. Right now, my heart is broken.
