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I’m tired of all the goodbyes

virginia.fallon@stuff.co.nz Virginia Fallon

Yes, I know the cat columns are getting old, but so is the cat and I promise this is the last one. He was sick recently, all wheezy and shaky, and while he’s better it’s not the sort of better we wanted. The vet says he’s just old; we say he’s just tired; the cat says nothing because he’s a cat.

When I came home last night he set about screaming at me. He demands food constantly, much like I did during lockdown, though I did it because I was bored and he does it because he’s hungry or has at least forgotten he isn’t.

Dropping my bags, I scooped him up and felt those sticky-out ribs and big belly that old animals always seem to have. I held him awhile then plonked him on to the table and gave him a sachet of the stuff old animals always seem to like. Ray likes it, whatever it is, but he’ll eat anything these days.

It’s perverse that Raymond should be the last pet standing. Being rather personality-less and, well, a cat, has made him a bit of an outlier to our family. While other pets bigger both in character and body have made their marks on us, Ray’s never done much other than just be around.

Except, of course, when he isn’t. Ray has spent his life looking for an owner better than the one he got and he’s found plenty; padding about various neighbourhoods and shacking up with other families. I used to take that personally, but now I just hope they’re not worrying about where he is. I’d like to tell them that he’s fine, just tired, and has decided to come home. It’s a good place to go in the end.

I’m also home and tired, so I carried him up the stairs to my bed, hoping he might stay with me awhile. For a bit he did, then was off waddling down the stairs, eschewing the window he used to jump out of and that I still leave open out of habit. Sometimes the cat that used to live here uses it when she ducks in from the neighbours to bite someone.

After Ray left, I plodded downstairs to make sure the door was ajar in case he wanted to come back up. He rarely climbs the stairs these days and sometimes I worry that’s because he’s sore, but I’m sure it’s because he’s just tired.

Bundled up in this animal is about 14 years of my history, which is always how we measure our pets. In truth, I’ve never felt much for Ray – not in the way I felt for the others – but he was there for that birthday; that tragedy; that whatever.

I moved him and the kids around for years: from the family home to the tiny flat where we shared bedrooms, then eventually this great big house. I’ve lost count of all the places we’ve lived in, but the cat was always with us and he’s still with me now that everyone else has gone.

Downstairs he’s made a bed on the bags I brought home. Draped across them like a dirty sheepskin, he’s sleeping like he did when he was a kitten except now he’s older, and I’m older too and tired of pets; tired of goodbyes.

Grief is both cumulative and patient, but so is love. I gather him up again; climb the stairs again; tuck him up next to me again.

‘‘Who will I write about now?,’’ I ask the cat, who says nothing because he’s a cat.

Opinion

en-nz

2022-08-18T07:00:00.0000000Z

2022-08-18T07:00:00.0000000Z

https://stuff.pressreader.com/article/281840057456266

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