Betty's little absence

I'm finding it hard to get used to Betty being gone. Even now, as I'm
writing this. Right now, she should be on my lap, or patting my
thigh, kneading a blanket, pawing at her cat dancer, *something*. But
there's nothing. There's an empty cat bed, an empty food dish, an
empty litter box, and an empty heart. When do you, and how do you get
used to having lost a beloved kitty?

I think I found part of the answer, something that works for me. When
I'm out, I'll convince myself that Betty is really alive, and that
she's waiting for me at home. It's like a form of faith, and it gives
me hope. It's dangling a little carrot that gets me forward through
life. When I come home, I feel a glimmer of anticipation. I stand at
the doorway for a little while and call her name hopefully. But she
never comes.

I feel increasingly desperate, day by day, to have her back. I feel
like I should do something, like put up posters and flyers. But there
isn't anything to do, except pace until the weight of it brings me to
my knees.

Somehow, RPCA is a kind of escape. I love reading everyone's stories.

But I do miss my little tuxedo girl so much.

Takayuki wrote:
I'm finding it hard to get used to Betty being gone. Even now, as I'm
writing this. Right now, she should be on my lap, or patting my
thigh, kneading a blanket, pawing at her cat dancer, *something*. But
there's nothing. There's an empty cat bed, an empty food dish, an
empty litter box, and an empty heart. When do you, and how do you get
used to having lost a beloved kitty?

I think I found part of the answer, something that works for me. When
I'm out, I'll convince myself that Betty is really alive, and that
she's waiting for me at home. It's like a form of faith, and it gives
me hope. It's dangling a little carrot that gets me forward through
life. When I come home, I feel a glimmer of anticipation. I stand at
the doorway for a little while and call her name hopefully. But she
never comes.

I feel increasingly desperate, day by day, to have her back. I feel
like I should do something, like put up posters and flyers. But there
isn't anything to do, except pace until the weight of it brings me to
my knees.

Somehow, RPCA is a kind of escape. I love reading everyone's stories.

But I do miss my little tuxedo girl so much.

Of all my cats, I missed Cherokee the most. He was 17 when he died.
Tak, I don't know when it gets better but it does. Maybe I was just
distracted from missing him by still having Yoda.
I used to actually see him. For a long time after he died. I'd see him
out of the corner of my eye, in a familiar spot like sitting at the
window. Then of course I'd look, but he wasn't there. It was so
intensely real.
I do hope it gets better for you soon.

Sherry

"Takayuki" wrote in message
...

I think I found part of the answer, something that works for me. When
I'm out, I'll convince myself that Betty is really alive, and that
she's waiting for me at home. It's like a form of faith, and it gives
me hope. It's dangling a little carrot that gets me forward through
life. When I come home, I feel a glimmer of anticipation. I stand at
the doorway for a little while and call her name hopefully. But she
never comes.

This is the system I used when my son was killed. I told myself - no
convinced myself that he had gone on holiday overseas, that he wasn't good
at letter writing but would be home one day, took me two years to realize he
wasn't coming back.

It's been just over a month since Cleo passed away, there are times when I
see her out the corner of my eye.

It's hard Tak but you will get there

((((((((((((((HUGS)))))))))))))))))

Lois

Burmese are like potato chips, you can't just have one!

Lois she is still there that is her way of saying I am watching and still
with you always

Remember the poem I wrote that I have posted for everyone that has lost a
friend in the last almost a year. I have been in the group

Always remember We will be there even if you can't see us.
We are always Watching and Waiting. That cool puff of air you
feel across your cheek, that fleeting touch, the feeling you have
that I was walking across your bed, that moment you swear you can
hear us, that flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye.
Is just our way of saying I love you and I am with you always even
in the darkest time We Will Always Be There. Till our paws touch again
always know we love you and cherished our special time together

Written by Matthew aka NO MORE RETAIL
( that's me)


"Lois" wrote in message
...



"Takayuki" wrote in message
...

I think I found part of the answer, something that works for me. When
I'm out, I'll convince myself that Betty is really alive, and that
she's waiting for me at home. It's like a form of faith, and it gives
me hope. It's dangling a little carrot that gets me forward through
life. When I come home, I feel a glimmer of anticipation. I stand at
the doorway for a little while and call her name hopefully. But she
never comes.

This is the system I used when my son was killed. I told myself - no
convinced myself that he had gone on holiday overseas, that he wasn't good
at letter writing but would be home one day, took me two years to realize
he wasn't coming back.

It's been just over a month since Cleo passed away, there are times when I
see her out the corner of my eye.

It's hard Tak but you will get there

((((((((((((((HUGS)))))))))))))))))

Lois

Burmese are like potato chips, you can't just have one!

Takayuki wrote:
I'm finding it hard to get used to Betty being gone. Even now, as I'm
writing this. Right now, she should be on my lap, or patting my
thigh, kneading a blanket, pawing at her cat dancer, *something*. But
there's nothing. There's an empty cat bed, an empty food dish, an
empty litter box, and an empty heart. When do you, and how do you get
used to having lost a beloved kitty?

Tak,

I know everyone has to take their time and make changes when it is right
-- but I really feel like it would help for you to get another cat. You
have so much to give and there are so many deserving cats out there that
need someone to care for (and about) them.

You would not be erasing Betty's memory or forgetting her -- you would
be honoring her. Once you love an animal that much and then lose them,
it expands your heart enough to make room for someone else.

You know she would not want you to be unhappy. Maybe you could take a
walk through the Humane Society cats with no strings attached and see if
Betty has decided to send you a friend.

The neat thing I've found when we've taken in another cat is that a
piece of the friend you've lost comes with them. There is always
something to remind you of the one you've lost, but remind you in a good
way. The new cat has the same color or the same meow or the same way
they attack a toy. There's always something.

Hope you feel better soon, and we want to be the first to hear when you
have a new friend in that cat bed...

Rhonda

wrote:
Of all my cats, I missed Cherokee the most. He was 17 when he died.
Tak, I don't know when it gets better but it does. Maybe I was just
distracted from missing him by still having Yoda.
I used to actually see him. For a long time after he died. I'd see him
out of the corner of my eye, in a familiar spot like sitting at the
window. Then of course I'd look, but he wasn't there. It was so
intensely real.
I do hope it gets better for you soon.

Sometimes when I'm in bed, I think I feel her paw at the covers. She
wants me to lift them up so that she can get under the warm covers to
be held and cuddled.

"Lois" wrote:
This is the system I used when my son was killed. I told myself - no
convinced myself that he had gone on holiday overseas, that he wasn't good
at letter writing but would be home one day, took me two years to realize he
wasn't coming back.

That's very hard. It makes me think that maybe I should write to
people more.

Rhonda wrote:
Tak,

I know everyone has to take their time and make changes when it is right
-- but I really feel like it would help for you to get another cat. You
have so much to give and there are so many deserving cats out there that
need someone to care for (and about) them.

You would not be erasing Betty's memory or forgetting her -- you would
be honoring her. Once you love an animal that much and then lose them,
it expands your heart enough to make room for someone else.

You know she would not want you to be unhappy. Maybe you could take a
walk through the Humane Society cats with no strings attached and see if
Betty has decided to send you a friend.

The neat thing I've found when we've taken in another cat is that a
piece of the friend you've lost comes with them. There is always
something to remind you of the one you've lost, but remind you in a good
way. The new cat has the same color or the same meow or the same way
they attack a toy. There's always something.

Hope you feel better soon, and we want to be the first to hear when you
have a new friend in that cat bed...

It's hard to imagine. I think that if you've had more than one cat,
or enough experience with cats, you might be able to build up a
taxonomy about cats, see what's common between them, and be able to
say that cats are wonderful companions because of X and Y. Maybe I
just didn't have enough time to build up that level of familiarity
about cats in general.

I can see how all that could possibly fit into the whole scheme of the
universe and all, but it's difficult to see how it applies... I know
that sounds dumb.

Rhonda wrote:
Takayuki wrote:
I'm finding it hard to get used to Betty being gone. Even now, as I'm
writing this. Right now, she should be on my lap, or patting my
thigh, kneading a blanket, pawing at her cat dancer, *something*. But
there's nothing. There's an empty cat bed, an empty food dish, an
empty litter box, and an empty heart. When do you, and how do you get
used to having lost a beloved kitty?

Tak,

I know everyone has to take their time and make changes when it is right
-- but I really feel like it would help for you to get another cat. You
have so much to give and there are so many deserving cats out there that
need someone to care for (and about) them.

You would not be erasing Betty's memory or forgetting her -- you would
be honoring her. Once you love an animal that much and then lose them,
it expands your heart enough to make room for someone else.

You know she would not want you to be unhappy. Maybe you could take a
walk through the Humane Society cats with no strings attached and see if
Betty has decided to send you a friend.

The neat thing I've found when we've taken in another cat is that a
piece of the friend you've lost comes with them. There is always
something to remind you of the one you've lost, but remind you in a good
way. The new cat has the same color or the same meow or the same way
they attack a toy. There's always something.

Hope you feel better soon, and we want to be the first to hear when you
have a new friend in that cat bed...

Rhonda

Tak,

I agree with Rhonda. I realize it may be too soon after losing Betty.
I just think a new cat friend might really help your grieving. I know
I cried and grieved when I had to send Izzy over the Rainbow Bridge,
and I keep looking around for Pan, although I know he is gone, too,
now. I know I just thank God to have my girls impatient to greet me at
the door whenever I come home.

A new cat would mean someone would be waiting at the door to greet
you, a warm furry body for your lap and your bed, and a playmate.
Betty was a sweet, wonderful cat, but maybe she was as good a cat as
she was because she knew how loved she was and felt totally secure with
you. You can extend that love to a worthy successor without it
dishonoring her memory one bit. No one here doubts the sincerity of
your love for Betty after all you did for her while she was sick. But
you can give another deserving cat a loving home, and I'm sure Betty
would approve. I know she would not want you to be so unhappy that you
were desperate. You lost Betty far too soon, but one of the things we
accept about having cats is that their lives are short in comparison
with our own, and we will only have them for a finite period of time.
The trick is, to find new friends to love before that empty apartment
and the unused toys become an unbearable sadness. Each cat creates
their own warm, comfy spot in our hearts the same way they choose their
favorite sunny windowsills for basking. You have a very roomy heart
that would be a luxury for any cat--fill the emptyness!

Melissa

"Takayuki" wrote in message
...
I'm finding it hard to get used to Betty being gone. Even now, as I'm
writing this. Right now, she should be on my lap, or patting my
thigh, kneading a blanket, pawing at her cat dancer, *something*. But
there's nothing. There's an empty cat bed, an empty food dish, an
empty litter box, and an empty heart. When do you, and how do you get
used to having lost a beloved kitty?

I think I found part of the answer, something that works for me. When
I'm out, I'll convince myself that Betty is really alive, and that
she's waiting for me at home. It's like a form of faith, and it gives
me hope. It's dangling a little carrot that gets me forward through
life. When I come home, I feel a glimmer of anticipation. I stand at
the doorway for a little while and call her name hopefully. But she
never comes.

I feel increasingly desperate, day by day, to have her back. I feel
like I should do something, like put up posters and flyers. But there
isn't anything to do, except pace until the weight of it brings me to
my knees.



I'm not saying its time to get another cat. Betty will let you know. But
maybe you do need to go out of your way to see some other cats. Maybe at
PetSmart or PetCo this weekend. They are happy to have anyone come and
visit the available cats and kittens. Being kindly handled and talked to
goes a long was toward making some of the timid ones adoptable.

You really sound like you need to at least touch and hold another cat.
Might well not be a cat that you need or that needs you. But just the
process of holding a healthy cat will help you to heal.

When things got bad at the hospital where I used to work, staff would start
to gravitate upstairs. Either to look at the babies in the nursery. Or to
visit our miracle little Ferris Wheel accident survivor. Either place was
calming and a reminder of just what life is.

JO

Jo