My cat died last Thursday. He was old and showing his age the last few months of his life. I had a million opportunities to say good bye and I took advantage of them. Webster was always quite the character and even though I knew he was not going to live forever, it still is a sad time.
I feel peaceful about losing him, but there are pockets of unexpected sadness I encounter. All the places where my life had adapted to having him around suddenly feel vacant. I felt sad the first time I made a meal and he wasn’t running laps around my feet, begging for a taste of whatever I was having. I felt sad when Matt and I came home late on Saturday night and Webster wasn’t on the other side of the door, meowing his greeting and scratching at the door with excitement.
I felt sad as I composed emails, sent texts, and made phone calls to the many people who knew Webster. I know it sounds silly, but Web was kind of a big deal (just like Ron Burgundy). I adopted him after his former owner, Ellen, passed away six years ago. Ellen organized events for women in the church at her house, so many people knew her quirky cat. For many of them, Webster’s passing meant the last piece of Ellen was gone, too.
I felt sad just now when my husband took me to the place where Webster is buried. I couldn’t bring myself to be there when Matt buried him, so this is the first time I’ve visited. On the walk back to our cottage, Matt mentioned that as he began to put the dirt on Web’s lifeless body, he realized that our cat wouldn’t react. He said, “It just felt…wrong.”
It is wrong. Death was never supposed to be part of life, but was introduced with sin. I don’t have the energy for theology, though. For now I just want to remember how special my kitty was and how fortunate I am to have had him.