Takayuki wrote:

"Kreisleriana" wrote:

So it's been almost a week without him. So weird to be in a house-- in a
world-- without Stinky. I expect to see him all the time-- when I get to
the top of the stairs, I expect to see him lounging on Mom's bed. When I
walk into the dining room, I expect to see him on the table. My mind cannot
get around the idea that he will not come back. Even though his ashes are
now sitting in a little green tin on the table. When I brought home Mimi's
ashes, that opened the floodgates and I knew she was gone. Even that
hasn't done it for me with Stinky. Even with the box of ashes sitting where
he use to sit, I still don't believe it.

I'm understanding, too, something of what Tak went through with Betty-- I
saw my beloved die. Even though I saw him die, I still think he's coming
back-- but even though I think that, I still dwell on those terrible
moments. He was not a well cat at the end, of course, but I still saw him--
and held him-- while he went from my sweet, alive Stinky boy to a lifeless,
staring rag in my arms. When the doctor put the needle in his leg, I went
down on my knees and made him look right into my face, so it would be the
last thing he saw. But the last thing I saw was him die, and then his poor
dead body. That was the last time I was with him, so it has been hard not
to think about, especially at night.

Oh Theresa, I've cried over your loss. When I lost Betty, I felt I
understood what you went through with Mimi. And I understand what you
must be going through with Stinky.

I think that my life just stopped in a very real way when I sent Betty
over the Bridge more than two years ago. Neither work, nor hobbies,
or even family is ever as foremost on my mind as that little girl. I
don't know if I'd still be here if it weren't for Dot, who I often
find myself accidentally calling "Betty", and Buster, who currently
has his inquisitive oversized head stuck in a cereal box that I'd
emptied for cardboard recycling.

As Marina has said on several occasions, laughter (in her case, at
Caliban's antics) seemed to be the best comfort for grief. Or at least,
for the worst of the grief, when it seems like you can never be happy
again. How can you believe there's no joy in the world when your cat
has his head stuck in an empty cereal box?

I remember when you (Tak) could not get the final image of Betty out
of your mind, when all of your happy memories of her were obliterated
by that final, grim, devastating picture. And I also remember when you
met your friend's cat, and making a small connection with that cat
suddenly allowed the good memories of Betty to come back. That's when
I realized that, although you will probably never stop missing her,
some real healing had taken place. You were no longer in the same
state of grief. You were starting to get ready for the next step - to
reach out to another cat.

Theresa, before I saw Takayuki's response, but also before I had a
chance to respond to your post myself, I was thinking this very thing.
Right now, all you can remember is that terrible last sight of him. But
it won't stay that way. You just need to get through this part of the
mourning, and I know it's awful. But when you start to be able to
remember the good things, and to be able to enjoy those memories, I
think you will know that the healing is starting.

In the meantime, I hope that Dante can make you laugh, as well as
comfort you in other ways. Now that he's the man of the house, he
might surprise you.

{{{Theresa}}}

--
Joyce ^..^

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