Growing Up
Seventeen years ago I requested a white Persian kitten for Christmas, but my father’s storage barn business was slow as it usually was over winter so instead I received an orange and white long-haired tom that hissed and clawed until my arms were covered with more scratch marks than skin.
As in any biped or quadruped relationship, there are moments when you fall in love. Five days after I received Rocky Balboa from the veterinarian clinic, the cat leapt off the balcony of our loft and splatted on the living room’s hardwood floor below. He lay there a moment – a spread eagle piece of fluff – and then slowly dragged himself beneath the tan wicker furniture against the left hand wall.
Screaming, I thundered down the steps and pulled the cat out from beneath the sofa by his forearms and snuggled him close — savoring his docile manner as he was too stunned to fight back – and I knew that I loved Rocky even if he wasn’t the flat-faced Persian lapping Fancy Feast from a crystal goblet.
Nine years later, I left for college and left my cat behind. I held him close and sobbed into his cream sickle fur, promising that one day I would return and take him with me. He did not seem concerned in the slightest—just licked his paws and titled his head while watching me with that one ear cocked from an infestation of ear mites when he was five.
But he should have been concerned.
I never really came back; I never took him with me. During the summers, I would return and I would feed him egg yolks with milk and chopped pieces of American cheese. But I no longer had time to bathe him with my mother’s Pantene Pro-V and comb his fur while blowing it dry.
I was growing up, and he was growing older. His coat was not as sleek; his tail not as scared-raccoon fluffy. I tried to tell myself that this was not harbinger of things to come – of his death and the death of my childhood – but it was the case.
This week, he died at my parents’ home two hours away. I didn’t get to see him before he was buried; I didn’t get to say goodbye.
Honestly, I thought that this black hole wilderness had caused me to outgrown such childish things as mourning a cat that was Methuselah in feline years. In the winter, a litter of Heinz 57 puppies mysteriously disappeared from our land, and this time — unlike the time before — I didn’t sob while searching the sky for vultures and then try to match up their orbit with a spot in the field that resembled bloodied thistle down.
And when five baby birds kept leaping out of their nest above our porch light and scuttling around our yard with underdeveloped wings, I only put on Playtex gloves and rounded them up and put them back a dozen times before I realized that their nest was simply too small to contain them.
The night after my seventeen-year-old cat died, I shook water out of a colander while looking out the window above the kitchen sink. As I watched the pink hem attach to a gown of purple dusk, I realized that I might have grown up, but I had not outgrown the power of a pet’s loss.
“He’s gone,” I sighed.
“Just hitting you, huh?” my husband said, his words curt but kind.
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I’ll miss him.”
It almost felt wrong to say that I would miss him, as in recent years Rocky Balboa had become more of my mother’s cat than mine, but I then realized that it didn’t matter.
What mattered was that I remembered him with his cream sickle fur and down titled ear, and as I stood there with water streaming from fettuccini pasta, I knew that one day I would not get my daughter a white Persian kitten but a ferocious long haired tom, and perhaps she would be lucky enough to mourn him when she was fully grown.
And in this, the cycle of life continued; the vestiges of childhood lingered on.
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Melissa Crytzer Fry
This brought complete tears to my eyes for so many reasons, Jolina. Like you, I had a cat that had to be left behind with mom (when I moved to Arizona; unlike your Rocky, my Obie was an after-college-graduation kitty). He's now almost 20 and STILL kicking, and even though the miles are so far between us and he's my DAD'S cat now, I'll miss him fiercely. Growing up doesn't mean we have to stop feeling for our pets. I love the picture of you with your kitty! And I'm so sorry for your loss.
Jolina Petersheim
Isn't it always bittersweet whenever you go “home,” Melissa? I would scratch Rocky beneath his chin just like I did as a young girl, and he would lift it just like he used to. Made me wonder if he remembered me. Pets are so essential in a child's life. I can't wait to get Adelaide her first kitty!
Julia Munroe Martin
This made me cry… mostly because of Abby, my college daughter's dog, now mine too, my daily companion in my daughter's absence. Abby's ten now, and I am already sad thinking of her being gone, as I'm sure your mom is today, because I still see Abby as a puppy in my young daughter's lap — much like the lovely picutre of you and Rocky Balboa. Pets are so precious in themselves but also so important in how they mark the passing of our years, the memories of what was happening when we held them tight. And you tell that story so beautifully… litle Adelaide (and you too) will surely love her kitty dearly.
Jolina Petersheim
Your comment brought tears to my eyes, Julia, as you eloquently paraphrased exactly what made me so nostalgic to hear of Rocky's passing:
“Pets are so precious in themselves but also so important in how they mark the passing of our years, the memories of what was happening when we held them tight.”
So beautiful and so true! Hug precious Abby while thinking of your own baby girl.
Country Wife
This brought tears to my eyes, too. I had a dog that I left to go to college, and she was “mine”. I later felt sad that I more consumed with living my own independent life than I was at leaving her behind. When I would return to my folks' for visits, I think a part of my heart was closed off to her because it hurt so much in the beginning. Patches, like my childhood home, was no longer mine. That photo of you and your kitty is just precious.
Jolina Petersheim
Oh, it is so hard whenever we return to our pets because we feel guilty that they cannot understand why we have left or that whenever we return, we will soon leave again. That's the good thing about an animal's love, though: it is often so unconditional. We could learn a thing or two from our pets!
Cecilia Marie Pulliam
We never outgrow the memories and love we have for our pets. I had a yellow striped cat named Tony. I still remember him, along with all the other animal companions I have had over the years. Even my “crusty old cop” husband, (his description of himself)tears up at the loss of one of our furry companions.
I too love the photo. May your daughter know the joy of that kind of love with an animal companion.
Jolina Petersheim
Sounds like your husband's a winner, Cecilia, with that soft heart beneath the crust. 🙂