Cats and Dogs

I used to sleep in the company of a nauseating and suffocating amount of orange cat hair. I once could always guarantee waking up congested, or several hours early with claws kneading into my chest through my blanket. By the window I would be greeted with a mass that looked like her coat was made with wilting autumn leaves, pawing at the blinds that denied her the warm morning sun— to which I’d reluctantly groan and push them up, flooding my room with difficult light that made sleep impossible.

I served this needy creature for so many years now that these little rituals and irritations had become second nature. I surely took them for granted.

I had known our family cat for a little over a decade. I had expected that she was going to die soon, but nothing ever properly prepares you for the exact moment. The same day that we found she had passed, we buried her, and the next I then planted flowers over her shared grave with another family pet of ours. She was essentially a childhood friend. I have hundreds of photos of Ellie in my album on my phone. When I was initially grieving (yes, grieving) I had thought to myself you’re this upset over a pet. Can you imagine what will happen to you when someone in your immediate family goes?

Even though the severity will be much worse when grandparents, parents, and eventually siblings pass (I am the youngest, so that’ll likely be my misfortune to bear), life offers no other choice but to move on. We can arrest that movement early by choice or freak accident, but with good healthcare and maintaining our health, we have a horizon that tells us who is going to go out first. It is a dreadful horizon to look upon, but accepting it is necessary.

At work, we receive phone calls to our unit secretary once a year from a woman whose son had passed in our hospital. It’s unknown if he actually died in the emergency room or the one of the inpatient units, but every year she calls on the day of his death, blames us for it, and tells us that we should be ashamed of ourselves.

Meanwhile, we have cards from family who had the same situation happen in our breezeway— thanking us for doing all we could to try and bring their loved ones back to life. They understand biological limitations much more than the yearly guilt-tripping-phone-caller does. They knew that you have to carry on with loss, no matter how big or small. They understood that life continues. They intrinsically live the following:

A dog tethered to a moving cart can either pull on his leash and be roughly dragged along or accept his fate and run along smoothly beside the cart.

—Donald Robertson, “How to Think Like a Roman Emperor”

We’re all dogs. We all are tied to our own carts and whether the divine providence of God to bear this cart, or “atoms and the void” with the senseless burden of chaos, there is no reasoning our way out of struggle. It will find us.

Dread it, run from it— it doesn’t matter. Fate finds a way to ensure you will get your lot in life.

You might find it impossible to play your dealt hand. It could be a crummy 16 in Blackjack or drawing your millionth card in UNO, but in the end, we all find a way to make do with what we’re given. Even bed-bound patients in nursing homes, (arguably the worst part of aging), find a way to keep living.

My daily joys and pains may no longer revolve around Ellie jumping on my computer’s power button or greedily wolfing down Francis’ (our other cat) wet food, but other joys and pains do find their space in the empty part of that schedule. The most we can do for those we lose along the way is remember them fondly, pray for them— whatever ritual that respects their passing and works for you.

Because at the end of the day, you are just a dog attached to a cart.

Until next time,

Eli

Rest in peace, Ellie, the best cat in the world.