Crybaby

Right now I'm crying like a motherfucking baby. Why? Because I just got a call from my brother, who told me that my cat, Missy, is dying. I never would've guessed that I would react so violently to the death of an animal, but I clearly underestimated myself on that front. Missy is particularly special to me for so many reasons. Less than a year into my parents' divorce (I was almost seven at the time), my brother and I came home from my dad's house one weekend to a surprise: my mom had picked out two itty-bitty kittens for us. I remember having to go into my mom's bedroom really quietly that afternoon so as not to startle the cats or let them out. My brother and I sat on the floor and played with them for hours. There were two, so naturally my brother took one for his own and I the other. He named his cat Sonjia and I named mine Missy. Since then Missy has pretty much been my best non-human friend (Sonjia, too). (God, I'm so ridiculous.) And I guess all of this is so painful because Missy has seen me nearly through everything. Unlike anything I've ever seen before, she and Sonjia instinctively know when I am sick, or sad, or upset, or even happy. Every night that I sleep at home (even when I am home just visiting from school, occasions when most animals would take their owners for strangers), Missy and Sonjia sleep in my room, on my bed. They take the same positions every time - Missy at the edge of my pillow (protecting my mind, as my mom would say), and Sonjia on my leg. Nothing could move them from those positions, and they would purr and meow so beautifully, and I will miss that more than anything. Everyone always hated them so much, but Siamese cats are inherently loyal to their owners and a bit standoff-ish to everyone else. But now I'm told that Missy is 3 pounds, 2 ounces (owing to a kidney failure) and could die at a moment's notice. Both Missy and Sonjia have always been very tiny, but over spring break I knew something had to be wrong with Missy because she was even smaller than before. I guess it's lucky I went home because that was probably my last chance to see her. Everyone is telling my mom to put her to sleep, but my brother is apparently fighting even the doctor to keep her alive until I get home, which probably wouldn't be a very good idea.

It's just so weird, though, because I was at the grocery store tonight, and I saw this old man collecting all the carts outside. He was a Stop 'N Shop worker, and I couldn't help but think about the fact that he was so old and yet engaging in some serious physical labor. It bothered me, and I wondered to myself if this man thought about his death ever, if he was lonely or perhaps the happiest man alive and so utterly grateful to be pushing carts in the parking lot of Stop 'N Shop. At the time it felt very otherworldly, and now it feels that way even more so.

I am awaiting pictures of Missy from my brother. I doubt they will make me feel any better about the situation, but I have to see what she looks like. Have to. What worries me just as much as the thought of her death is the thought of knowing that Sonjia will be so devastated when Missy dies. Anyone who's ever seen them together is shocked at how intricately connected they are. They always situate themselves as if they are bookends, two parts of the same whole. It just makes me think of Where the Red Fern Grows, and that makes me cry even harder.

I'm sure I'll regret this post in the morning. I'm pretty beside myself right now, though, listening to Elliott Smith and entertaining all these sorry, existential thoughts. Bad idea, I know. I will probably just go to bed. But first, I will leave you with a few pictures of Missy and Sonjia:

I know I have more pictures of her, better pictures even, but I can't find them. Maybe I'll post them later.

To end on a happy note, my younger brother, Justin, is going to his first prom a week from Saturday with his girlfriend, Lisa, and I couldn't possibly be any prouder of him. He's such a good kid, and the thought of hanging out with him a lot more now that he's, you know, a real almost 18-year-old person gets me pretty psyched to be going home for longer than planned.

Go listen to some catchy pop music, and dance, and smile...for me. Nite, kids.