In Memorium

On Monday, 9 July, our older cat, Caerbrae, passed away. We had taken him into the vet to have an abcessed tooth removed, and he passed away in the recovery room.

My wife called me at work and broke the news to me. I remember sinking to the floor, thinking it all a mistake while she sobbed uncontrollably on the other end of the line. The rest of the day is a hazy blur. We went to the vet's office to pick him up; listened to their condolences - I'm certain they were heart-felt, but we were in too much shock to register anything. We left the office with Caerbrae, buried him, and quietly headed home. I don't think it really hit us Monday night. The shock of the loss was still incredibly new, and I think we really didn't know how to explain or understand what had happened.

It hit me on Tuesday morning, after a sleepless night of tossing and turning. As I got up to get ready for work, I suddenly realized how intensely quiet it was in the bedroom. He wasn't there to greet me with his short, pointed meows; wasn't there to steal a drink from my water glass on the nightstand. In the kitchen, he wasn't there to beg forlornly for tuna from the cabinet or purr loudly as he danced between my legs. When I got home from work, he wasn't there to greet me; wasn't waiting in the dining room chair for me to pet him and listen to him tell me about his day as I scratched his head; wasn't sitting in his bed in the window behind me, grooming and patiently awaiting attention. He wasn't there Tuesday night, curled up on our laps on the couch. He won't be there on Sunday, curled up on my lap on the couch as I take a break from some odd job.

He's gone.

As hard as this is on me, I know it's at least ten times worse for my wife. Caerbrae was her baby; her constant companion for over nine years. She held him in one hand when he was a kitten, and he burrowed into her hair at night. Every morning he chewed on her ears, and most nights he snuggled up next to her as she slept, her arm resting lightly on him, pulling him close. They were bonded extremely tightly, and having to bury him was the hardest thing she's ever had to do.

Caerbrae was an amazing cat. Highly intelligent, incredibly patient, and undeniably sensitive. He knew instantly when my wife was having a bad day, and would be by her side or curled up in her lap, purring so loudly that I'm sure the neighbors could hear him. He knew how to open the doors in the apartment, and knew exactly where we kept the cans of tuna. He was notorious for creating head-sized holes in bags of dry cat food - just large enough for him to get at the food without making a mess. He patiently tolerated Manny, our new kitten, and within a couple of weeks the two of them would be sleeping together contentedly either on the chair or in the cat bed.


There's too much about him to mention here, and I highly doubt that my clumsy words can do him justice. Suffice to say, he was the most amazing cat I've ever had the privilege to know. His personality and intelligence made him human, and that brought us closer to him than anything else.

I know that there are detractors out there who will say that "it's just a cat." To this, I must strongly disagree. To these people I ask this: have you ever had a pet that was more than a pet; a cat or a dog that became part of the family? If you have, then you understand; if not, then you'll never know how deep a loss you feel when they leave. Caerbrae was much more than this, and that is why we will feel his loss for a long, long time.

To those of you with pets, I charge you: hold them close; pay more attention to them. Play with them more often. Be patient when they falter. Be closer to them than you have been.

Because you just don't know when they'll be gone.