Goodbye, BeeGee

I suppose it's no surprise that I'm missing my cat BeeGee, who was put to sleep last Wednesday while I held him in my arms. He was a loving companion to me for ten years, a daily dose of uncomplicated affection and togetherness. Of course I've cried a few times and am in a fugue state (as Sheila calls it so eloquently). I hadn't planned to do anything this weekend, and I didn't, and I shouldda gone out, done something, been with people. But this is my self-protective tendency, to pull back and be by myself - to lick my wounds - when I least need the solitude. I happened to spend an evening a couple of weeks ago with a woman whose nephew was gunned down by gang members a few weeks before that. Once she confided in me what had happened, our evening became one of commiseration and empathy as I sat with her while she grieved, reminisced, shouted in anger and wept in sadness. Numerous margaritas were sucked down, and at the end of the evening she seemed somehow better, another incremental step further along in dealing with this tragedy. But that's not my way.

When my mother died, I didn't tell any of my high school friends because I just didn't know how to do it, and I didn't want to burst into tears in front of them. My closest friend Jim found out about it by reading the obituary (he read them religiously - strange kid), and I found out that he knew about it because he sent a donation to the cancer fund specified in lieu of flowers. Our entire conversation about it was a week later, when I said, "Thanks for the donation," and he said, "Don't mention it." Then we both looked away from each other. Teenage boys, right? Both of us were treading in uncharted territory.

Adults weren't much better. A month later, my Dad and I attended an open house sponsored by the community arts association I belonged to, and someone said, "How is your mother?" and I said, "She died a month ago," and the woman was insensed. "Why didn't you tell me?" she shrieked, as we both stood there in the middle of the living room nibbling on swiss cheese and Ritz crackers. I don't know. Because it seemed really awkward to call her up and tell her the news? Because I didn't understand the protocol? Because I honestly didn't think she would care?

My loss isn't a tragedy - BeeGee had a wonderful, long and healthy life. But it sure is impactful on me, because BeeGee clung to me every minute I spent at home, much to my delight, and I spend a lot of time at home. He laid on me, he slept, he buried his front paws between my neck folds. He greeted me each morning (at 5:30 am, even on weekends) with a resounding chorus of meows and was always in the window sill when I came home from work, waiting for me. He never quite got the idea that when a book was laying open in front of me, it wasn't an invitation to curl up on the fresh white pages, but he loved the heat from my gooseneck reading lamp so much that it just made complete sense to him - of course: a tanning bed! He was scrupulous in his litter box usage, never once making a boo boo in ten years (except for the two or three times when I hadn't changed litter fast enough and he peed on a bath towel as a Mafioso-esque message which I would discover only when I went to dry my face - "change the frickin litter!"). He kept himself well-groomed and didn't scratch the furniture. I think a lot of the cute feline behavior was behind him when he came to live with me. He was already ten years old by then, well into his middle-age, and completely uninterested in anything other than eating, sleeping, cuddling and seeing what was going on in the neighborhood from his perch on the windowsill. Kinda like me! Toys were ignored. New upholstery was examined for its comfort, not its inherent ability to be shredded. We were two middle-aged guys, set in our ways, finding acceptance and affection just by being there for each other.

I have a stomach ache this weekend, not because of BeeGee's death, completely, but because of some past-its-prime cauliflower I ate a few days ago. The discomfort seems appropriate to the weekend I'm having, though: puttering around, thinking I hear him meowing, imagining the sound of his paws on the wood floors as he makes his way to the litter box (it's just a bird in the back yard), realizing with a start that the warmth I feel on my chest as lay in front of the TV is not his body but a throw pillow.

On the morning before I brought him to the vet, I held his weak, worn-out body wrapped in a towel like a baby in my arms, letting him lick vitamin gunk off my hand, and sang to him. BeeGee was almost completely deaf, but if his head was close to mine, and if I sang loudly, he could just make it out - he'd cock his head to the left and press his ear against my mouth, his eyes closed in what appeared to be music appreciation bliss. My lips and his ear would vibrate together as I belted out a song. Maybe he didn't hear me, but just enjoyed the vibrations. I'm not sure. But the song I sang on that last day, without really thinking about it, was "One less bell to answer."