The other night I posted this in the Facebook group for my pen pals:
I can no longer say we have two cats named Snickers in my intro letters. No sympathy cards or anything of the sort are needed or even wanted, but for those of you who want to know what happened you can ask. Even though it really, really sucks.
Before I go any further, I just wanted to warn you that I’ve turned off the comments for this particular blog post. I do appreciate the thoughts and prayers that are likely happening right about now, but I’d rather not hear it. The whole reason I decided to post about the situation here is so after this, I won’t have to talk about it anymore unless I want to.
Neither cat was a stranger to rough-housing. My 16-year-old cat has wrestled with any and every cat he has lived with, and for the 10+ years Gabe has had his cat he never acted as if he was older than two. Every once in a while their rumbles would get out of control to the point Gabe or I would have to break them up. Last Friday was one of those times.
Normally when I break them up, Gabe’s cat will take off like a rocket, but instead of fleeing the scene he just wobbled and fell over as if the left side of his body couldn’t support his weight. Out of curiosity I stood him up to see if there was really a problem and sure enough he fell over again. For the duration of the day he hung out under Gabe’s dresser, only getting up when he had to and when Gabe came home from work (aww). Over the weekend he still didn’t get up much, but he did venture out into the hallway and bathroom. Gabe spent Sunday night petting him and rubbing his legs to see if he could tell whether or not anything was broken and he never flinched but wagged his tail so we hoped that was a good sign.
Unfortunately things took a turn the next day. He would cry out whenever he moved, and at one point he fell and had an accident. I kept thinking if Gabe wasn’t at work we would be heading to the vet, but there was another part that thought we’d be spending a lot of money to prolong the inevitable. I’m surprised that I was able to fall asleep that night because of how much he cried, but I did. Around 1am I woke up to use the facilities and on my way back to the bedroom Gabe asked me if I’d check on the cat. You can probably imagine what I found when I did.
I was and am so incredibly thankful Logan wasn’t home. Trying to find a box we could bury him in was something no three-year-old needs to see, nor would we have wanted him to witness us actually burying the cat he called his. Logan doesn’t seem all that phased by him being gone, oddly enough; to him it’s as if he ran away and one day we’ll see him while we’re driving by.
Gabe hides it well that he’s upset, but whenever the other cat comes near him he’s not exactly warm and welcoming. I am not denying that my cat is a douche, but I can tell he has felt really guilty. Normally he’s a vocal cat, but he didn’t bug us the entire time Gabe’s cat was suffering, and he hasn’t eaten as much since that awful night. When Gabe’s not around he will come and lay beside me, and though he encourages any and all petting, it’s clear that he’s there because he’s lonely. He has also been around Logan much more since the little guy has come home from his grandparents’, and though he has tolerated Logan and his check-ups for some time now, this is the first they have seemed so buddy-buddy.
But still, things definitely are different around here. It’s weird waking up in the morning and not having him follow me into the bathroom waiting for me to fill his water bowl. It’s weird not finding him on top of the freshly folded clothes on Gabe’s dresser, or in the window when the boys and I come home from grocery shopping. I know things will get less weird over time, but for now it’s just something we’re dealing with while taking comfort in the fact that he didn’t suffer very long.
Sincerely, Kate ~!~