Sunday, March 22, 2009

R.I.P.

Ever since I moved into Typewriter'ma's basement I have been cursing her cat, Bear Kitty. I used to like, maybe even love, Bear Kitty. Growing up she provided us with love and snuggles and oodles of kittens to play with. But then I grew up, and she became a mildly deranged animal that meowed incessantly and waited at the door to pounce inside. Right when you were trying to lock up for the night. Cursed thing.

I can't even count how many nights BrightBoy and I have been in the entryway saying our goodnights and as soon as the door is opened ever-so-slightly, Bear Kitting flashes inside and up the stairs. If we leave her inside, she wakes everyone up in the middle of the night with her Moaning Myrtle Meows, so getting her out becomes an inconvenient imperative. At this point it's my gut reaction to say a few swears and stomp up to find the wretched sneak, but instead I turn on my sweetest voice and tip-toe around cooing and coercing. She hides in corners and darts behind furniture, but I always win and feel quite accomplished when I lure her into my arms and throw her outside, dusting my hands off proudly as I shut the door.

And now she's dead.

When Typewriter'ma told me I immediately felt like I had killed her; like all my ill-wishes were finally granted and some possessed driver clipped her in the middle of the night, leaving her rigor mortisized body in the gutter ALL BECAUSE I WANTED HER DEAD. It wasn't a happy feeling.

Tonight the strange reality hit as I said goodbye to BrightBoy and we didn't have to brace our legs at the door to keep her out when it opened a crack. We flung it wide and no cat came bounding. It felt solemn and lonely. When I shut the door I felt a reluctance, a saddness, about not more fully appreciating her when she was alive. I felt sad for not loving when she would follow me around and do that terrible whiney-meow at me, or for not adoring her when I would pick her up and night and all ten little claws would dig into my skin right before snagging my sweater in half-a-dozen places. I felt bad for not kissing her softly as I bent down to place her gently on the driveway, and for not stroking her fur when Typewriter'ma was away, and letting her know that someone here always cares.

No. I don't think I loved her. And my death threats paid off. But now I have a guilty conscience because somehow I'm a vicarious cat killer.

R.I.P. Bear Kitty. May your new home be more hospitable than the one you just left and devoid of girls who hate you.

2 comments:

jocelyn said...

I know exactly how you feel. I was lucky enough to experience the same wretched thing for all of December. Bittersweet day.

wings said...

oh my gosh. Bear is gone?! I didn't know, and feel strangely hurt with the news. You described perfectly the scene's of my boyfriend goodbye's for two years while I lived there. I add sentiments to yours, live long in cat heaven bear, eat lots of heavenly mice.

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