Facing the day

I’m writing this laying in bed.
I’ve just checked email, read your words on Facebook, cried and found myself utterly paralyzed. I don’t want to leave my bed today.

It’s hard, our routine has already begun. The sunshine is beaming in as bright as it can. I look over the sheets and there you are in my head, I’m thinking—kitty in the sunshine, where aaaaare yoooooou? If you aren’t right there surely you’ll be kitty kitty underfoot waiting for her drive by pets while I’ve got a moment to “myself” on the potty.

If you aren’t there, I know you will greet me on the landing of the stairs, perched to take a step forward but not until I’m just one step ahead of you. We’ll take the stairs down together, you ambling and adorable doing your little hop hop hop like you do and me trying to get past my morning aches and go as fast as I can towards your special dish.

You’ll meow—it’s the only time you ever talk with words—and I’ll tell you I’m going as fast as I can. I’ll call you a hundred names, click click click my tongue and tap tap tap the edge of your bowl and suddenly the morning will have its first breath, ahhhhhh.

Baby girl—I’m choked up just typing these words—you are my day. You are my heartbeat, my rhythm and I don’t want a new routine. I loved our little life and language and way. I know you loved it too, though your cat nature kept my knowing anything about you—you were the boss and fully in charge of what we know from day to day—fully.

I think that was true, right up till the end. In the end mama ratchet really got to be in charge, huh? Scoop a kitten? I mean who knew you loved being held? Ratchet did, well and Papa Phil knew too. You were my baby girl who quickly became our baby mitten. You let ratchet be fully mama, not like any other person I ever loved before.

You knew. You always did. And now that well of wisdom, that fountain of kitten, she is gone. And I don’t want to get out of bed without her.

I will, but today I am grateful I can take my time. Like you always did.

1995 – 2013 Tigger “Gunther” Mitten Bean Frickle Baby-girl, rest in peace—the kind that you brought us, the kind that passes all understanding.

7 thoughts on “Facing the day

  1. I’m so so sorry. We had to put down our beloved Mario not to long ago and it broke our hearts. My kids and I never expected it going into the vet. I understand, and have empathy for your heart wrenching pain.

  2. It’s harder when they’re with us for so long. But it’s so wonderful when they’re with us for so long. So long Rachels’ Mitten. Praying for comfort and solace for my grieving friends.

  3. People who don’t have these special friends in their lives sometimes don’t understand the grief which comes with the loss of a beloved animal companion. And you’re right, it is the MISSING from the daily routine which is so hard to bear. Your words remind me of my own darling black and white furperson Jess, who left me suddenly a few years ago. I still sometimes think I feel her brushing against my legs, or her (considerable!) weight on the bed. Solace to you, dear friends.

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