A Christmas Grief Observed

Posted on December 25, 2002 in Cats Grief

Of all the family, I think Lynn alone appreciates how much Ambrose’s death hurts. You, my friends out there, who talk to me in chat rooms and who read this blog, know how deeply I am attached to my cats, especially to this little fellow. Had he died at a more advanced age or if I had seen this sickness coming some months ago, I would not be as devastated. Tracy, the cat to whom I have devoted most of my attention these past few months because of her frailty, still claws and whines. I do not hold this against her: when she wants in my lap, I hold her close. She has been with us the longest: I just hate that it was Ambrose, dear little Ambrose, who was the first to go.

Small things that hurt today:

• Rushing too quickly past a pair of neighbors who’d understand if I told them about Ambrose and none of us having the time to stop and talk.
  
• A woman wearing a red sweatshirt that featured three grey tabbies with white faces and pink noses, singing.
  
• Lynn’s grandmother asking after our cats. “How many do you have? Three?” “No, only two.” “The eldest one died?” “No, the middle one. Joel’s favorite.”
  
• Coming home and looking up at the window where Ambrose liked to sit and watch things on the street. Sometimes, I’d talk to him from down there and he’d listen attentively.
  
• The banner hanging from our deck, of a dark grey tabby with white face and paws; hanging for dear life from a branch.

I held back my tears, smiled at everyone, and wished all a Merry Christmas. You won’t see a picture of me with a long face: I did my Christmas duty of showing jollity in the muscles of my cheeks.

The pain grows easier to manage. I don’t break out into tears at the mere hint of a racoon-striped tail or the sound of a cat pawing in the litter box. I am getting used to the corner of the bed where Ambrose used to sleep and catch my bad dreams being empty. I am not crying every time Virginia Mew refuses to crawl on my chest where Ambrose used to roll on his side and clutch my hand with his claws.

The atrocious change and the resulting emptiness are becoming a mundanity. I don’t know if I should be ashamed or just numb.