It took me a few hours to figure out what to do. The owner of the animal clinic said, “Put her in a shopping bag, nobody’s gonna know.” Carrying her through the home that had been her own was a scary thought, but then it ended up being almost natural, as if it had happened before – how strange. Her cute paws were still sticking out. I clumsily double-bagged her, and we were on our way, riding the 6 train together in the middle of the night on the morning of Thanksgiving.
We waited at the pet hospital with other half-dead kitties and overenthusiastic puppies. It was a quiet and dignified exchange, and then it was simply time to go. I was baffled:
I had given something so precious without anything in return, not even a receipt.
Even though she never left the house, Chaussette had a full life because the whole world came to us through the Zoom voices; she loved your voices. Covid had been her favorite because I was there always: it was the best for her mental health.
During the last few months, she had been telling me it was her time to go, but I wasn’t ready for such devastating news. We went to the vet; Chaussette didn’t want to go to the doctor, and it turns out not every office is as humane as you would hope them to be. She was uncomfortable, and she let me know. I thought her incontinence was something to do with me. Was I away too much? Something about her food? A lot of transformation was happening in my life; this could have been her way to tell me something?
Growing up on a farm, we have a different connection to animals. It’s primal, part of everyday life. Listening to my mother speak about the massacres in France this month: farmers having to take down the entirety of their healthy cattle, being gassed, government sending tanks to kill cows. Or seeing my father cry, speaking about the abuse of a terrorizing wolf roaming in the French countryside, and how it may scar the other bovines, running for their dear life, witnessing their sisters being eaten alive. Living in a city for so long, their everyday life feels otherworldly, but closer than a movie.
More than my blood family, Chaussette was always there; she was my guardian and confidante, a bit of a voyeur. I hope I let her love me enough.
She had a bit of a reputation among my close friends; she wasn’t the easiest. I was the only one who could carry her and trim her nails. She was very tender to me; she knew how to care for me in times of sorrow, how to demand my attention when I needed rest from work, and she always had to decide which arm was to pet her, or at least we made it a negotiation.
When I started being eligible for health insurance, we had a little episode. I let them run some tests. Based on my family history, there was a good chance I might be lactose or gluten intolerant, but instead, I was informed that I had an allergy to… the cat, the dander of the cat. At first, it didn’t make sense, and then I realized I usually dropped a tear or two in the morning. Doesn’t it happen to everyone? I thought it was – joy for the new day… This discovery affected our relationship. I don’t know if I healed the allergy, or if I decided it was ridiculous to no longer pet the pet. I think I got tired of the distance and moved on from that idea, letting the cat and I be who we were meant to be together, without this distracting information from the doctor’s office.
Being silly on Zoom, Chaussette liked to say hello in her own terms.
To be fair, about ten years ago, I was planning to teach more overseas, and I didn’t feel like a conscientious pet owner. I was away a lot, and I thought she’d be happier elsewhere. So I endeavored to find her a suitable family. Clearly, that wasn’t what she wanted. When I returned from my trip, I went to get her back. She demanded to be at her home, with me as her roommate, so we had a little talk about our respective dreams and desires… and we made it work another ten years, what a success.
Once this notification popped up on Facebook, about looking to re-home my kitty, and I was deeply embarrassed. I think I even deleted it, as if it had never happened.
Her last few months were difficult. She had always been a quiet cat, and now “meow” was a new thing. They were innocent meows, but they were meows nonetheless: something was hurting. My home smelled different despite all the efforts. I did what I could. She was especially affectionate: anytime I dialed the phone to speak to my mum or my best friend, Chaussette would be there before they even picked up. Because my blah-blah was code for uncontested unlimited petting, which we both enjoyed.
That day, we woke up and got ready for our 8:30am veterinarian visit. She was not in good shape. After a few tests and a procedure, I said yes: I was prepared to feed her in my arms, and to make sure she ingests her thyroid meds. It was a lot for her little body. I asked my neighbor to check on her while I was at work; I probably had a feeling. When I came back, I noticed her there. I couldn’t close her eyes, I wasn’t gonna insist.
My living companion for the last fifteen years… She had been there since my twenties, assisting me in teaching online, listening in on every theater training and writing group. Sometimes I still cry, but I don’t know the reason. It could be grief, or maybe just regular crying people do when they’re on their own?
When I come home, nothing moves, no one’s breathing, the shower no longer sings drip-drip. I can light a candle without having to dread the burnt chicken smell. My soul is able to travel freely, only I am alive.