RIP Athos the Cat
Posted: Wed Jun 02, 2021 7:26 pm
My daughter Janneke's friend for the last 17 years crossed the rainbow bridge today. Janneke had this to say:
There is a ticking clock that hangs over us all. There are times when it becomes visible, and there are those for whom the clock never shows, just its loud, clanging end.
Her clock shows twelve hours.
Twelve hours before, my cat was curled up beside me. I worked, crunching numbers and writing formulas, and she watched birds, letting me know they were there through the steady rumble of a contented purr. Her eyes moved from the birds to me and back again, purring never ceasing. She and I were content in the knowledge that this state of being, this simple pleasure of delighting in each other’s company would not end.
Fourteen years before, I heard her purr for the first time. I went to the animal shelter and asked them to give me the cat least likely to get adopted. They gave me a monstrous twenty pound behemoth of a cat, and I named her Athos.
Her cat carrier vibrated with purrs the whole way home. We were content in the knowledge that we would be together, and that we would derive a simple joy just from being beside one another.
Eight hours before, she started yowling and walking in small circles. I watched, tried placating her with food, tried treating the low blood sugar she probably had, and watched as those efforts failed, and she collapsed. I loaded her into her carrier and rushed. Still no clock in sight, but reality beginning to creep in. Athos is 17. There exists a clock, and though I know it ticks down to zero, it can’t be this close. I repeated my mantra, I believed, and I wished.
Years before - I doubt she or I remember - there were moments when I thought of running, of loading up the car and leaving, just my passport, a backpack, and me. Every time I thought about it, she was there, this little orange face, and the promise we’d made to each other. The simple joy of each other’s company. The lulling rumble of a contented purr, and my hand nestled in her fur in kind.
As her clock comes into view, and I see how close to the end it is, I remember how much she’s saved me, and that I cannot promise the same in kind.
I get a call, and the options are laid out before me. It is 12.30AM. I am alone.
It will not be the first time I lose a pet. It will not be the last. But there is a special hurt that cuts deep. I didn’t know today would be the last day. I didn’t know that snuggle would be the last. I didn’t know the moment I loaded her into the carrier would be the last. When I can see the clock, it’s easier to relish that last comfortable moment before the plunge into the abyss. When the clock is hidden, you’re left with a hollow pain and the desperate wish for reality to not be so. You beg for that one last moment where you can nudge the hands of the clock, hold them still long enough to savour what you have.
That quiet, peaceful comfort of nestling beside each other.
It is 12.30AM. I am alone, save for the clock.
There is a ticking clock that hangs over us all. There are times when it becomes visible, and there are those for whom the clock never shows, just its loud, clanging end.
Her clock shows twelve hours.
Twelve hours before, my cat was curled up beside me. I worked, crunching numbers and writing formulas, and she watched birds, letting me know they were there through the steady rumble of a contented purr. Her eyes moved from the birds to me and back again, purring never ceasing. She and I were content in the knowledge that this state of being, this simple pleasure of delighting in each other’s company would not end.
Fourteen years before, I heard her purr for the first time. I went to the animal shelter and asked them to give me the cat least likely to get adopted. They gave me a monstrous twenty pound behemoth of a cat, and I named her Athos.
Her cat carrier vibrated with purrs the whole way home. We were content in the knowledge that we would be together, and that we would derive a simple joy just from being beside one another.
Eight hours before, she started yowling and walking in small circles. I watched, tried placating her with food, tried treating the low blood sugar she probably had, and watched as those efforts failed, and she collapsed. I loaded her into her carrier and rushed. Still no clock in sight, but reality beginning to creep in. Athos is 17. There exists a clock, and though I know it ticks down to zero, it can’t be this close. I repeated my mantra, I believed, and I wished.
Years before - I doubt she or I remember - there were moments when I thought of running, of loading up the car and leaving, just my passport, a backpack, and me. Every time I thought about it, she was there, this little orange face, and the promise we’d made to each other. The simple joy of each other’s company. The lulling rumble of a contented purr, and my hand nestled in her fur in kind.
As her clock comes into view, and I see how close to the end it is, I remember how much she’s saved me, and that I cannot promise the same in kind.
I get a call, and the options are laid out before me. It is 12.30AM. I am alone.
It will not be the first time I lose a pet. It will not be the last. But there is a special hurt that cuts deep. I didn’t know today would be the last day. I didn’t know that snuggle would be the last. I didn’t know the moment I loaded her into the carrier would be the last. When I can see the clock, it’s easier to relish that last comfortable moment before the plunge into the abyss. When the clock is hidden, you’re left with a hollow pain and the desperate wish for reality to not be so. You beg for that one last moment where you can nudge the hands of the clock, hold them still long enough to savour what you have.
That quiet, peaceful comfort of nestling beside each other.
It is 12.30AM. I am alone, save for the clock.
I feel my own clock ticking.