Goodbye Kitty: A Farewell to Star

It’s a self-inflicted wound, as many of the most severe wounds are.

We get pets so they can bring joy to our lives. They provide companionship and purpose. They are willing to put up with way more crap than anyone else in your life would. They are completely non-judgmental, even when you wander around the house naked. Or drunk. Or both. They are emotional support animals for our terrifying voyage on this fragile planet hurtling through a chaotic and hostile universe.

In return for this priceless gift, we take responsibility for their well-being. We house, feed, and in some unfortunate cases, clothe our pets. We shower them with attention and affection. We welcome them into our family, and they become, for all intents and purposes, our children.

This plan has predictably disastrous consequences.

In the normal progression of events, our children typically outlive us. When this natural order is broken, the result is invariably horrible, heartrending tragedy and grief.

Of course, when you have furry children, this result is almost inevitable. It is practically guaranteed that your pets will die before you do. They are ticking grief-bombs.

Our latest grief-bomb went off this week, the fourth in a quick succession of pet-related sadness explosions. This was, again, the predictable outcome of spectacularly bad planning.

We acquired four pets at roughly the same time, about 18 years ago. They could grow up with our daughter, we reckoned, who was around five. There were two cats, Billy and Star, and two dogs, Tanner and Bella. We cared for and loved them as family.

If your pets are born at the same time … well. You know where this is going. Tick, tick, tick.

A couple years ago, Bella passed away suddenly, and we were heartbroken. She was sweet and gentle and really liked the way people tasted, if her constant licking was any indication. A few months later, Billy the Evil Cat suffered a weird-but-common, age-related back injury, and we started getting way too familiar with the euthanasia room at the vet clinic. Meanwhile, Tanner’s health was declining, and when his goofy enthusiasm for life had turned into near-constant pain, there was nothing else to do. We let him go.

And then there was one. Star was semi-feral when we got her — wary and reclusive, even for a cat. Visitors could stay for days and never see her. When she did show up, she would head-butt you to get your attention. If you saw Star, you knew your presence had been accepted. If you received a head-butt, you were officially part of the clan.

Gradually, she warmed up to us and made more frequent appearances. But she continued retreating to her numerous hiding places on a regular basis, making it clear that people were still something she could tolerate only in limited doses. I know the feeling.

She could get away with this aloof behaviour because she was a gorgeous cat, a sleek and bright silver tabby with the kind of soft fur you could happily run your fingers through for hours. Star was wise to this. She rationed her availability for petting.

Always leave them wanting more, was her motto.

Right to the end.

I’m not good with death. After all this practice, you’d think I might have gotten better at dealing with it. Nope. I still don’t know what to do or say when someone loses a loved one. It all feels clumsy, awkward, and hopelessly inadequate. So when I cradled that soft, tiny life in my hands for the last time, by then almost weightless and crying quietly to me for comfort I could not provide, I was powerless to do anything but blubber and sob and wish someone else with a better grasp on the situation was in my place.

But we had a deal. It’s the deal we make with anything of substance and meaning in our lives. We nurture it, and treasure every moment it gifts to us, and, when the time comes, we say goodbye. With as much teary, booger-blowing dignity as we can muster. Because without that deal, without the impermanence of the pleasure, and the inevitability of the pain, our journey on this cosmic life raft would be joyless and unbearable.

Goodbye, Star.