9/23/2019: Socks is looking VERY poorly and slow today, especially by
evening. I fear he is on his way out. … Watched "Miss Hokusai" on
Netflix. Went in and cleaned up at 8 PM. Put Socks up for the night and
finished the movie. ... Time for a rosary, then bed.
But before I could go to bed, Socks died. He had been passing a rickety
evening laying on the couch; I noticed he had passed some liquid (peepee?
drool? stomach stuff?) so I cleaned it up and moved him into the bathroom on a
towel. While I was praying the Rosary (and during my first decade, which was
with the intention - with the help of Sts. Francis and Gertrude - for, if not
healing, and least an easeful passing for him) he made a little call. I went in
the bathroom, and he seemed to be going out. He had made one last poop on the
towel. I cleaned it up and moved him and the towel into the shower. When I
checked on him about 30 minutes later, he was gone.
9/24/2019: Woke up at about 5 AM. Wrote a poem about Socks and posted
pictures of cats on Power-of-Babel in tribute. One tends to think of pets in
some way as shields against fate or hostages of fortune, that they'll have to
die first before you can go. I always used to joke that Socks would outlive me,
that he was never my pet but a fellow inmate. But things seem a bit lonelier
just thinking about him lying in there. Now have to break the news to Andy and
dispose of the body. And move one almost brand-new litter box. It's now 6:10
AM. Prayers and Catechism.
Went to wait on the kitchen porch at 7:30 AM. Both Susan and Andy were up,
and I told them about Socks. They were sad but took it well; he was, after all,
14 years old. I got two kitchen bags: one for Socks until Andy can bury him
this evening, and one to empty his litter box.
At 7:20 PM Andy came in and got Socks to bury him; I remembered to take out
cat food back to the bin and found myself growing maudlin about throwing away a
plastic Ziploc bag I have used for his cat food for years. It is truly the end
of an era. Now that even his body is out of the house, things seem even
emptier. I guess I could have action figure setups again. He knocked over:
0n January 29, 2013, the
Balrog
On June 25, 2015, the big
Gandalf.
I keep having this weird
reaction, where I realize that I have these little habits and mental spaces
that no longer apply now that Socks is gone: I don't have to worry about him
running out when I open the bathroom door, I can clean the top of the toilet
off without it being covered with cat hair half an hour later. I thought about
sweeping up, and then thought how he liked to chew on the straws if I paused.
He was here for almost 8 years at least, and that wears a groove in your head.
When he came here [into the guest house], I had a job at Gatti's, a bank
account, a unit at Grapevine Storage, and all 10 toes. The girls were still in
school.
9/25/2019: I still find
myself with that hesitation before opening the bathroom door, as if
anticipating the need to check the floor for cat poo or having Socks rush out.
Just being able to do my business without having to angle around the litter box
is a fresh sensation. … Washed out the litter box and moved it out to the bin
piles so I can shower. … 9/26/2019: Took the cat box [the pen that had his bed]
out to the garage.
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