RIP N.

For the first few years of our time together, N.’s place, at night, was with me in bed. He’d curl up between my legs, so regularly that I was conditioned to carefully lift my legs and reposition them around him when I flipped over from back to front, or vice versa. Now, that comfortable presence, once so close to me, is gone forever.

It seems he had internal bleeding after the surgery, and he just kept losing blood. I even gave permission for a cat blood transfusion, to no avail. I’m going through the regular stuff: anger at myself for taking him in for surgery; anger at the surgeon for somehow screwing up; anger at my family for not appreciating him enough. But, at the bottom, there’s deep sadness, and love, and a hint of acceptance. He was a good cat and I did the best I could to help heal him. But it just didn’t work.

Now, how do I tell my boy that we no longer have a kitty cat to taunt, to brush, to feed? I suppose, in some ways, it’s a blessing that he probably won’t understand. But it also depresses me that he doesn’t comprehend the significance of the passing of this family member. He’ll just blithely go about the business of demanding 100% of mommy’s attention, while mommy just wants to cry.

(I just went to get a tissue and started sobbing when I saw an unopened box of cat litter from a recent shopping trip. Who would have thought cat litter would get me emotional? And I can still hear his little cat fountain tinkling in the other room. I don’t have the heart to go pull the plug.)

Well, it’s late… 1:21 a.m. P.T. I’d better do something else for a little while, so I can try going to sleep soon.