Note (9/11/22): On August 31st, my family lost one of our two beloved cats, Barkley. He was ill for about a month-and-a-half, and eventually succumbed to it. This is for him, written over the few days to follow.
At first, it seems that suddenly losing a pet thrusts only pain into your life. A part of your family — a part of you — has been wrenched from your heart. And you feel it there — a hole punch to the chest, your emotions a ball of hefty metal slotted into the void. It comes and goes at random through these first days, as if palmed in and out by a magician’s sleight of hand. One moment, you’re fine; then the ball drops, and the next you’re crying. Barkley was far from your “perfect” cat. He came from trauma: a kitten shipped up from unknown conditions in Tennessee, his innate fear of anyone outside our immediate family was unshakeable. He possessed a big, big frame; the Charles Barkley of felines, but with some extra padding around the edges. His appetite was legendary, and so was his meow — our town crier always made his presence known, never more than in the wee morning hours, unleashing his trademark haunting yowls in the general direction of bedroom doors. He had a bizarre knob on his back, uncanny raccoon colors, and a slightly stumpy tail (according to some). But despite all of this, he was athletic, healthy, happy, loving, snuggly, playful, curious, and simply so very present throughout his life with us. And as for him and I, well, it chokes me up as I type it. We simply had a special relationship, the closest I’ve ever had with a non-human being. I just think — for whatever the reason — I was able to uniquely intuit his needs and emotions. And he, in turn, seemed to reciprocate that, a bond built on 11 years of time and trust. No matter if, in recent ones, that time became increasingly sporadic. I’ll never know how he perceived me going away for (on average) months — the only person in our immediate family to do that during his lifetime. I do know it kills me how it's that exact nature of young adulthood that kept me away from his last six weeks, and ultimately final moments. I believe he understood though, and it can only be fate that we were all able to FaceTime, cry, and comfort him and each other as he slipped away. So yes, at first it seemed that suddenly losing Barkley thrust only pain into our lives. But it’s not that simple. Pain is never a solitary actor; in fact, it’s utterly dependent. It’s dependent on the strength of love. And we had so much of that for Bark. We still do. Always will. I feel his presence so strongly these first days, as I begin writing this during my Boundary Waters trip. I spot him sprawled amidst tall roadside plants, eating grass that he’ll soon throw up; I pet his soft fur and fuzzy ears on the heads of the sled dogs; when night falls I hear him pawing at the door from my bed, eager for a few midnight cuddles. Barkley’s spirit, his energy, has been set forth from his body back to its ultimate place in the world, and it’s beautiful, tranquil places like this where I most feel him — so fitting for his sweet and gentle self. So more than a eulogy, let this be a partial thank you for 11 irreplaceable years. And to a cat that I — and we — will miss dearly in this life, a loving send-off to whatever may be his next one.
Jake Marble 