Story: Quarter Life

Quarter Life

I was twenty five years, three weeks and two days old when my cat died.

It was a damp September afternoon when I made the stop to the vet’s office and came to my parents’ house with my small casket. I gripped the white box in my hands and my fingernails clawed the smooth cardboard just as tightly as the grief gripped my own heart. There was so much emotion then, under the juniper tree as I was about to place the box into the freshly dug hole. There was grief, regret, pain, love and much more. It all intermingled and meshed and rolled in waves until I could no longer feel anything.

My parents were beside me as they usually are through most major events in my life- good or bad.

It was my mother who suggested getting a cat for me three and a half years before. I had recently graduated from college but still lived at home to save money. I knew my parents didn’t want any more pets in the house, so I thought I would have to wait until I moved out before I could consider getting one.

That was until one day in June, I was on the computer when my mother came up to me. “Maybe we could talk about getting a cat.”

“Ok, Mom,” I answered, half listening but mostly distracted.

Two days later, I realized she was serious.

The two of us went to the foster home with every expectation of getting one kitten, but there were a pair of siblings that neither I nor my mother could bear to break apart. One was a black and white girl. Her head and back was splashed with black while her mouth and stomach contained white. The little bit of black on her nose and chin had the appearance of her having a goatee. Her brother was an orange tabby who had the same golden eyes as she did and similar splashes of orange and white across his body. They both were eight weeks old and were so tiny I could hold one in each hand.
 

The logic was simple. They needed each other for company so, instead of one, Zoey and Toby both came home.

I went through three birthdays: two good ones and one not so great. I moved out of my parents’ house to a small apartment, lived there for a year, and upgraded to a spacious two bedroom condo. The closing date was one week after my 25th birthday. Much like I did the year before, I packed everything I owned into an array of boxes, placed them into my car and moved them. Between travelling and moving, my life was a constant wave of motion.

I thought Toby was still adjusting to the new place when I noticed he was sleeping more in his bed than exploring his new surroundings.

That’s what I thought until, one night; he tried getting up and failed. Again and again, his legs didn’t have enough strength to push himself up and move forward.

We went to the emergency animal hospital that night and the vet on call told me he was sick. He said words like, “Diabetes” and “kidney failure.” He was going to try what they could to stabilize him but there wasn’t much that could be done be. There were very little hopeful words.

It was my mother whose shoulder I cried on as I waited to hear from the vet. The tears were nonstop as she held me close to her, soothing me with words of comfort.

My dad was less than understanding. “Maryanne, how much is all this going to cost to treat him?” He asked when I was waiting for Toby’s prognostic. “Please don’t take it the wrong way but there are other things you have to consider. He is a cat after all.”

I knew my father and I knew those words would come eventually. It still didn’t make any easier to hear them, but I didn’t respond because there was nothing I could say that could make him understand.

Toby wasn’t just a cat. He was a constant. It didn’t matter when I got depressed or when work got a bit too demanding or when little boys talked about a love they didn’t mean. I knew about love because I knew Toby was there to keep my feet warm on cold winter nights and to wake me up in the mornings with a purr that made his whole body hum.

Toby died two days later.

It took two days to believe he belonged in my life and it took two days for him to leave it.

I was twenty five years, three weeks and two days old and, yet, I was still a child.

My dad doesn’t understand about the love of a pet, but he understands loving a child. He was the one who suggested a resting place under the juniper tree in the back yard and dug the hole. He helped me find a grave stone and held me when I cried after putting the large stone in place.

It was a damp September afternoon when I placed the box into the hole and watched as my dad covered it up with the moist earth. I believed it could never be dry again.

Autumn ends on a cold November morning when I wake up a stranger to my life. The lyrics to Green Day’s “Wake Me When September Ends” are playing on the radio and I listen to it as I watch Zoey sleep next to me and I feel Holly pouncing on my feet. This kitten is nothing like Toby. Where Toby spent his life relaxed and calm like the surface of a lake on a summer day, Holly is a dark river that is always in constant motion. Holly is eight weeks old and is small enough to hold in one hand.

There are times when I remember Toby. It’s a surprise on how one so small could strain a heart but learning about love and loss is one of the lessons of life.

I am twenty five years old and I still have so much to learn about life.