Our Pets, Ourselves

We Were Kittens Once, and Young

All of our cats are dying.

A few months ago, Rebecca’s passed away after a short illness. Then, a few weeks ago, Choire’s died after a long one.

As for me, well, I always assumed Frog would go first. Unlike his happy-go-lucky brother, Frog was the one who startled easily, who stared off into space with a melancholy and pridefulness that seemed to suggest the accumulated wisdom of generations. I decided early on, probably after finding him regarding me thoughtfully when I stumbled through the door drunk, that he was the more emotional and fragile of the two, although it’s possible I was projecting. (I was probably just projecting.)

Admittedly, I suffer from a grim personality quirk in which the joy of welcoming a pet into my home is immediately followed by grief in the knowledge that I’ll likely outlive it. But everything feels different this time around.

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My Dog Days Are Over

Lee was everyone’s favorite dog in part because she didn’t make it easy for you to like her. She was stubborn and needy and scared of almost everything: kids, loud noises, basketballs and footballs, dancing — any sudden movement, really — and cats. She wouldn’t fetch. She barked, loudly, when people were having sex. When friends came over she would insist on being petted and if they stopped she would nudge them with her head, sometimes so hard that people who were holding glasses of wine spilled it on themselves.

But she was also silly and loyal and had a perfect round tan spot on her white back, and she wiggled her behind when she walked, and when you let her off the leash in the park she would bound toward the dogs who still hadn’t been neutered and flirt shamelessly with them, even if they were a fraction of her size. When she finally trusted people she would let them play with her and rub her tummy. She once stole a carrot cake off the back of a kitchen counter and ate the whole thing.

In the eight years I had her, Lee was my only constant: I lived in seven apartments in two cities; I am on my fourth job, not counting internships and freelance work; I went to two graduate programs, one of which I finished, one of which I didn’t; I dated a bunch of guys, some for a while; I made and lost friends. And knowing I had to take care of her meant I couldn’t do certain things that people do in their 20s, like take spontaneous trips or stay out until dawn.

Even though I knew on a rational level that she wouldn’t always be there, I sort of assumed that she would be. I couldn’t picture a world of mine in which she wasn’t.

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