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How many ways can a heart break? How many jabs will it withstand before it simply stops beating? Whose heart am I worried about? It could be Ms. Poppy’s heart, which must surely—after over ten days of living primarily off the air she breathes—be ready to stop beating. Or it could be my own, with each hourly attempt to interest Ms. Poppy in a new flavor of food, a new preparation of food, a new combination of bowl to food to placement of food-filled bowl.
It was 18 years ago that this indefatigable little feline pried herself into my walled-off heart. At the time, my then-husband and I were still recovering from the drawn-out demise of three geriatric pets. I was counting forward to my retirement, determined to be fully unencumbered when that longed-for freedom finally arrived. A new pet would interfere with my plans! I was firm. No more pets!
Until the day Poppy locked her gaze on mine. I was on my letter carrier rounds, which took me to a run-down heating oil business that accumulated more stray cats than customers. The proprietors spent oodles on cat food, which they portioned out in pie pans for the myriad strays that proliferated on their desiccated, jungle. I had become inured to stepping through a swarming sea of fidgety, feral felines as they hungrily wolfed down crispies. But that August day, a small, self-possessed, square of tuxedo sat at the top of the stairs to the building, surveying the milieu below and willing me to bend down and pet her and then, of course, open the door so she could entertain the secretaries by jumping on their desks and knocking papers and pens onto the dilapidated floor.
Said smirking, smoking secretaries watched this tête-à-tête from the window of their break room. They grinned knowingly and encouraged me to take home the little black and white bundle of joy. “She’s already house broke,” they promised. “The only problem is that she likes to dig around in the potted plants.” (Potted plants that were half dead and fully disguised by stacks of paper and boxes of bookkeeping records.)
“Oh no,” I replied confidently. “I can’t have any more pets.” And I waltzed back out the door stumbling over the little black and white menace, who seemed quite entertained by my clumsiness.
The hex was laid. That night, a little black and white sprite danced behind my eyelids like Dasher, Dancer and Donner the night before Christmas. In the morning, as I rubbed my eyes open, I rolled over and cooed to hubby, “Mmmm, maybe we should have another little kitty?”
And so it began. And now it must come to an end. I will miss her curling up behind my knees, or in the curve of my stomach or, heaven forbid, my crotch as I snore the night away. I will miss her greetings, both the loud, after she lost her hearing, and her quiet little “prrrrew” as she jumps onto or off my lap, or more recently, when she’s had little energy for a larger greeting. I will miss the lengthy back and forth conversations we had before she lost her hearing. I will miss her pointing to the catnip stash, waiting for me to get the hint. I will miss her tiny paw fussing my face early in the morning, wanting to burrow under the covers to escape the icy cold bedroom. I will miss her crawling precariously up to the top of the chair behind my head for an elevated gander at the little black ants crawling across the screen in front of me. I will miss her strolling across the keyboard when my back is turned, or worse yet, lying on the warm keyboard, editing my copy and sending her own messages. I will miss the mat of cat fur accumulating under the keys of my laptop. I will miss her droopy form draped languidly over my wrists as I type, and her furry body perched in the center of the book I am reading. I will miss the clothing and décor quandary of what to wear with an ever-shedding black and white cat in the house. I will miss the rattle of her pawing through her basket of toys to find the one mousie she craves. I will miss the tidy black tufts at the peak of her ears, and the perfect weave of white hairs on the black backs of her ears. I will miss her adorable black heart nose and the question mark of her tail. I will miss cat box duty.
So much life we’ve shared. So many changes we’ve navigated together. Such mutual love and admiration. An era of my life is forever bookended by this little tuxedo cat. I will miss your beautiful little soul, Poppy.
quiall said:
They claim us. We have no defense. And we feel the passing deeply. But we are better for having known them. I know I am.
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rangewriter said:
Thank you quiall. I’m still breathing, though, she is not….
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Jane's Heartsong said:
I echo quiall: they claim us. A black and white cat came to my friend’s door and they tried to ignore it, but it made the decision to move in and it stayed. I am sorry for your loss.
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rangewriter said:
Thank you, Jane.
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Michael Richards (certainline) said:
Such a difficult time for you. I wish you strength and courage.
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rangewriter said:
Thank you Michael.
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Alli Farkas said:
Sounds a whole lot like my journey with my last calico cat, who was a shelter cat of undetermined age but who I had for 16 years. I especially remember the howling part after she went deaf. Its intensity almost made ME deaf. But I loved her to the end. I feel for you and I know if you acquire another cat it will be because that cat came to you. The best cats find you, not the other way around. 💕
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rangewriter said:
Alli, thanks for the encouraging and perceptive words. You know, I’d never had a deaf cat before and was rather blindsided by the loud yowling. You’re right, it was enough to drive me bonkers. But I loved hearing her and miss her now. I was also rather slow figuring out that she had gone deaf. Our little dears.
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Sue Birnbaum said:
Such a wonderful memorial and so beautifully written. I couldn’t help but smile at Ms. Posey’s character. She was lucky to have met you!
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rangewriter said:
Thank you Sue. Maybe I’ll see you at the F&G thing tonite? 😉
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Playamart - Zeebra Designs said:
You’ve had a very lovely feline companion, and adjusting will surely take time. What a gorgeous and spirited creature – the images and story make a sensitive tribute. Thank you for allowing us to also cherish a very-precious Poppy….
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rangewriter said:
Thank you Lisa. The writing was therapeutic. Sort of.
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Keith said:
Linda, thank you for sharing your lasting friendship with Poppy. I love the pictures, especially the one with Poppy on your shoulder. I feel for you as it is hard to say goodbye to a loving and loved pet. Best wishes, my friend, Keith
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rangewriter said:
Thanks, Keith. I think it’s fortunate that I have a roommate this summer. The house feels slightly less empty than it would without him.
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RetirementallyChallenged.com said:
Saying goodbye is so incredibly hard. You have many great memories of your years with Poppy and those memories will give you comfort. I had a little tuxedo (she was my last cat too) who stole my heart with her unique personality and antics. Take good care of yourself as you give grieve the loss of your friend.
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rangewriter said:
Thank you Janis. I’m staying busy. I still haven’t deep cleaned the house, so I will continue to confront little memories of Poppy, like when I move the fridge and find a scrim of hair and abandoned crispies. 😦
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musingswithcamerainhand said:
One of the most difficult things is to say good-bye to these creatures that claim our hearts and bring out the best in us. Your tribute to Ms. Poppy well expresses the deep effect they have on us. Very sorry for your loss, and may her spirit live on.
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rangewriter said:
Thank you for your kind and heartfelt words. I miss her enormously, but I’m moving on, as we must.
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Robert Matthew Goldstein said:
It’s so hard to lose them, our pets. I lost Kat in 2014. I may never get another cat.
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rangewriter said:
I imagine that someday I will have another cat or dog. But for now, I will go without that wonderful company. They are so endearing, so sweet, so blameless. I find it much more difficult to lose animals than people. (I’m pretty anti-social, I guess.) I can still feel her tiny little body curled and melting into my lap.
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Robert Matthew Goldstein said:
I know exactly how you feel.
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rangewriter said:
Virtual hugs, my friend.
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catterel said:
I missed this post at the time somehow – so sorry, and I send you my sympathy. Our pets deeply enrich our lives, but their passing hurts terribly.
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rangewriter said:
Thank you Cat. Yes, it’s approaching 2 months since we parted. I still miss her multiple times a day. She was just so sweet. Sigh.
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