Cats Don’t Cry
Scientifically, it’s a fact. Cats can have deep feelings of sadness, but they don’t express it, they rarely whine; other than purring (which can mean multiple things) there really isn’t a way to tell their emotions apart from their actions. If a cat is annoyed, it will leave, if they love you, they’ll headbutt you. Mostly they have two feelings: contentment and hunger. They’re fine with most things, rarely over emotional. When they’re dying, or in extreme pain…they want solitude. They certainly don’t cry.
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In late 2018, I was mostly alone. My then-girlfriend-now-wife had a tumor. We didn’t know if it was benign or malignant. It was most likely benign, but you can never be sure, and the surgery to remove it would be painful regardless. The recovery would take months, if not a year at least.
She got the surgery, and I got a friend for the time being — her cat, Halley. She was mine to take care of for the surgery bits and the recovery time when my wife would be too much in pain to move. Now, mind you, Halley was 18 at the time, old enough to qualify for the “old as shit” label, old enough to where I was given a contingency plan should she die in my care during my wife’s recovery.
I was never a cat person. Hated ’em, in fact, somewhat due to allergies, another big chunk is that dogs give unconditional love, and I’m deeply, clinically insecure. Cats don’t, there’s effort involved in earning their trust and their love, and Halley was no different. In her eyes, I was keeping her from the one thing she truly loved and will ever love: my wife.
Halley was cantankerous to say the least, completely spoiled rotten to say the worst. She only drank water out of the sink. She demanded to be fed precisely at whatever time she deemed fit to be fed at, and then she’d go back to sleep. Normal cat stuff, except she’d also piss on my shoes and shit on my blankets. Cats normally believe they own the moon and the stars in the sky, Halley truly believes that she created the universe and everything in it.
She was a Cat, a capital C-Cat, every stereotype cranked to the maximum. She was a walking princess, her shit truly did not stink. At one point, after my wife and I were married, I fell asleep on the couch. I thought my wife was giving me a wet Willie in my sleep from how my ear was being disturbed. NOPE. Halley was wapping my ear with her tail, annoyed I was taking up space that was rightfully hers.
She even knocked over my router as I was working from home. No one believed me at work, until they heard her signature wail, which I still describe as a foghorn being blown through a kazoo. She was an obnoxious little brat who demanded attention. She was also *my* little brat.
I knew I couldn’t let my wife down by letting her cat die, so I tried everything under the sun to preserve her life and eventually, to get close to her. I arranged her blankets, served her breakfast in bed, during a boil ban I fed her spring water (she barely drank it, because she wanted the water out of the sink). I was at her beck and call, I might as well have been wearing a penguin suit for a time.
At the time, I was working a graveyard shift, and I hated my life. I was commuting a two hour round trip to see my wife every day off I could, and then straight back home to take care of Halley. I’ve struggled with suicidal ideation, and it was never stronger than in those three months, where the only people I had in-person contact with were my recovering wife, the three people I worked with, a grocery store clerk, and my wife’s cat.
You can guess what happened next. It’s not complicated. I fell hard for Halley. She became my little buddy, she was the embodiment of the annoyance and frustration that I felt outwardly to others, I could sense her annoyance and empathize; I too craved human contact but was too tired to forge meaningful relationships. Companionship was secondary to rest; but there was no rest in solitude, the only sounds were the buzzing of a TV and the clanking of beer bottles being hustled into a recycling bin after I plowed them down. Simply, it was miserable, but we were miserable together.
Eventually, my wife got better, and Halley moved back in with her, and she forgot all about me, sink water, and my old raggedy apartment. But I never forgot about my friend. The future is not linear; paths can go in all directions, if the past is changed there’s no definite reaction in the future. However, the thought of not having Halley during that isolation makes me shudder to this day. I do not wish to contemplate it further.
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As I write this, I think Halley is finally dying. Her kidneys have been failing for years, and at 20, it’s just a matter of time. Two eye infections and constant constipation and puking are taking its toll on her body. I fear every time she lays down that she won’t get back up.
It’s 1 am, I hear her meows, they’ve gone from annoyed to scared, from demanding to confused, from frustrated to scared, highlighted by loneliness. My little terror is terrified. Of what, her impending mortality or something else, I cannot say. I wonder if her memory is going too, if her poor little brain just can’t bring herself to recall who is leading her bag of bones to her water bowl.
I miss my girl. I miss my little trash-talking-with-body-language, boisterous, loud, commanding girl. can’t stand to see her like this. Cats don’t cry, it’s biologically impossible, but the residue from the antibiotic eye drops put into her eyes sure as hell looks like tears.
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It’s some time in the future. My little girl is gone, gone to cat heaven, a place where she can’t hurt. I’m glad she has no pain anymore. Her confusion and discomfort are gone. I miss her. She will always be the animal that helped keep me alive at one of my lowest points. I owe her everything. She’ll never be replaced. There will be other cats, other pets. There will never be another Halley. Wherever she is…I just want her to be happy.