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for Zooey, with love
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Do you remember when we met?
That’s the day I knew you were my pet…
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_______________________________- Sea of Love
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My cat died today. Or was put to sleep. Either way she won’t be sleeping next to me next time I visit my parents house.
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She had been meowing in what my mother termed really strange like she was in pain. They were going to treat her for a kidney infection, not knowing exactly what was wrong, and wait and see. This was Tuesday.
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Later that day, Mom wrote to say that I shouldn’t count her out just yet, as the meowing had stopped, as had the blood in her urine. There was comfort in that, the kind of comfort a person cuddles with when there’s really nothing comfortable about it. It’s what’s there.
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I had been on a bit of an emotional tear the whole week, not entirely sure as to why. Things seemed to have great emotional effect on me.
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I would cry at the drop of a hat: a beautiful but sad book about American Families would have to be put down multiple times a day; the old lady I always saw walking on my way to work, with her wobbly cane and long coat (even though it was so hot out) her face staring down at the path she was always trying to pass every day wasn’t there for the past 3 days; a picture I saw of a flock of birds, tearing away from each other, each in their own direction, made me almost see the beauty of cages.
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I remember the day we picked her out. We went to the pound, where there was a wall full of small cages full of cats. I knew I wanted a black one – but with white spots of some sort for contrast. The idea of a purely black cat did kinda creep me out. There was one that was a real show-off: he kept climbing the cage and meowing at us, begging to be picked. I didn’t like that kind of desperation, that need. I was 15 years old myself, and willfully sprouting my weeds of independence much to the chagrin of my parents. That was, in fact, part of the reason for the cat in the first place: to give me something to take care of, to be responsible for.
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I was never one for responsibility, though.
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I decided the best cat was the one who didn’t need, or care about, or even notice me. She kept quiet to herself in the back of her cage, barely lifting her head when they opened the door.
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I held her and felt her purr deep into my chest; the coo of her chest making my heart beat a little bit faster.
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She had a few white spots on her face and paws that gave her character.
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Her eyes were aware and prone to quick stabs of expression. More like human eyes than animal. She looked at me with a cocked head, her pert little ears perking to the side, stared me down, and then, apparently satisfied, settled back against me.
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I translated her purr to mean yeah, you’ll do I guess.
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*______*______*
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The thing I think we’ll all of us remember most about her – her calm. Her powerful calm. She was the only cat I ever knew who could walk into a room, meow hello, and come up and lay on your lap for hours, making whatever might be bothering you sort of drift away into this seat of soft fur that would rise and fall in synch with your own breathing. That the two of you could sit there and be calm, not worrying, and it would almost always be you being the one to break it up.
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Not because you wanted it to stop – you didn’t – but because you had to go to the bathroom, or get a drink. And as you tried to quietly urge her off of you, if only for a minute, she would stop purring, quirp a little “erw?” and then just as calmly get up so that you could move to whatever stupid human thing you had to do.
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When you got back, she’d be a little bit cautious to go back, as if to punish you for leaving in the first place, but slide right back into that spot in you that she had kneaded into her own.
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Not because she needed to, but because she could.
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Last night Zoey woke up when her pain meds wore out and so I new she was in pain and not getting better. I took her in to the vet today at 1:30 p.m. and it went very well. They were so nice to her and me both. They gave her a sedative and all she felt was a prick of the needle. Then when she was asleep they gave her the overdose. It just took less than 2 minutes for that to take effect. I am sorry to lose her but she was just the best cat. You did a great job picking her out and naming her the perfect name. When all is said and done it is a very peaceful way to go.
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Love
Mom
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I had named her Zooey after the Salinger book, which I had just finished reading when we got her. Being 15, I thought that a Salinger character was the only thing to name a pet. But it did fit her, perfectly.
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I’ve never been one to woe about the “Zoo-eee” vs. “Zoh-eee” debate. The Salinger literary agency has come down on “Zoh-eee” which is how we always pronounced it.
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The whole family always misspelled her name – Zoey, rather than Zooey – and I stopped correcting them.
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She was their cat too. She was all of ours.
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The family cat.
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And it isn’t as if the cat could spell anyway.
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Zooey, I wish you a good rest, out on a sea of tremendous love where the calm waves of the water blend and merge with your purrs, and cuddle you, calmly stroking you to rest.
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Zooey, know the waves never need a drink, or need to go to the bathroom.
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Zooey, I wish the waves know to know to open the back door when you meow for it, knowing that the water is wide, and yet that you will always come back when you’re good and ready to.
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Zooey, I wish I had never left you so soon after meeting you.
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I almost feel responsible now.
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Zooey, you who never forgot, but always forgave.
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And would still sleep with me the nights when I would return home.
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Zooey, I wish you purrs neverending...
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