In Memoriam

September 30, 1988-June 28, 2006


Later:

Last week Ben was chasing bugs in the garden -- pretty lively for a cat nearly eighteen years old. Saturday he was reluctant to eat, but some chicken perked him up. Sunday morning he was not interested again, but Sunday night he was pretty enthusiastic about some canned ocean fish recipe. (His diet has been "vet-approved" kibbles for a number of years.) But by Monday night he was not interested again, and was getting weak, and had visibly lost weight. Tuesday I took him in for an exam.

Severe kidney failure.

I had him for one more night. He slept with me, but got up in the night and then couldn't get back into the bed. I found him in a corner. (No, I didn't sleep much.)

You go into denial. Of course he will get better, even though you know he won't. The emotional reality is that it's been over seventeen years -- he's going to be here forever.

There was no point in prolonging this, even though he didn't seem to be in pain -- just bewildered. He was happy sitting on my lap in the waiting room, though. Very calm, but then Ben always was calm. He was very self-possessed, even for a cat.

I held him while the vet gave him the injection, and then until he died.

It is empty in here right now. Something vital, something intrinsic to the feel of the place, is missing. I keep checking to be sure he has food and water when I leave and when I return, even though his dishes are no longer in their place, and I keep expecting him to be in one of his favorite spots, waiting for me. He did, you know. I have to stop myself at the door from checking to see if he wants to come out with me.

I sit and read and there's no cat on my lap. There's something wrong about that, as though some fundamental rule of the universe has been violated. I should have a big black tomcat on my lap, reading with me.

The reaction is setting in today -- I've been crying my eyes out all morning.

I only have a couple of pictures of Ben. I don't take pictures of daily events. I think I'm afraid that if I do that, I won't need to remember them. I do remember. I remember this tiny little black blot with enormous feet and enormous ears who couldn't quite walk at five weeks -- he could hop and he could run, but walking wasn't in the repertoire just yet. I remember at six weeks holding him over a running hot-water faucet so he could breathe the steam -- he had a very bad respiratory infection, courtesy of AntiCruelty. He had ridden home on the bus from the vet in my jacket -- it was a bitter cold day and I took him out of the carrier. At three months he was play-fighting with Denver and she put a notch in his ear, which he kept for the rest of his life.

It wasn't until he was older that he became a lap junky -- when Denver and Millie had died and it was just him and me. But before that he always placed himself so that he could see me.

It was an ongoing dialogue. Ben was not a silent cat, at all. He had his quiet moments, but it was pretty much a running commentary, comment and reply, the two of us, for many years.

And he was beautiful. He was always a handsome cat, but he hit a certain age and got thin, the way most cats do, and it just brought out the delicacy of his face. He always looked very serious. In later years, he developed this very intent look, as though he were trying to get a point across and I just didn't get it, as though he could somehow make me understand just by the intensity of his gaze.

We were extraordinarily simpatico. I told him once if he were six-four and still had his balls, I'd marry him.

I have no one to take care of now. I think that's important to anyone, and always has been to me -- I'm all about taking care of things. I might as well admit it -- along with the Thunder God comes a good dose of Earth Mother. Times like this bring it home to you. I will probably get another cat. Life would seem barren without one. I can't understand people who don't want to keep pets. I think there must be some part of their souls missing. I don't know if I will get a kitten. I'm not sure I'm up to the strain, and the place is no longer kitten-proof -- Ben and I had reached our accommodations on what went where and what was off limits, and there is a lot of mischief here waiting to happen for any creature who wasn't part of those negotiations. But there will be another cat -- I hate to think what I would become without another living creature sharing my life. You have to love something, in an up close, face-to-face kind of way, otherwise the world isn't real.

There just won't ever be another Ben.

But I need some time, first.