It’s Tuesday night. I should be getting ready to head over to pub trivia. Instead, I’m staying home.
I want to spend some time with Nermal.
Before all you Internet folk chime in with the cat-lady jokes, I would like to explain myself. My mom’s cat, Rosie, died this morning. She was only a year and a half old. She had been in the animal hospital for a few days, but she seemed fine just a week ago.
Her kidneys failed, but the vet doesn’t know whether this was a genetic problem or whether she ate something she shouldn’t have. Either way, her death happened suddenly and unexpectedly.
It never occurred to me before what it would feel like to lose a pet. I had an aquarium growing up, so I had plenty of fish die on me, but none of them ever greeted me at the door or curled up in my lap. Now that I’m accustomed to hearing the jingle of Nermal’s collar as he charges at me when I get home, it’s hard to imagine coming home to silence.
My mom is going through that right now. I wish I could drive up to Binghamton and give her a hug. It would only do so much, though. One hug is nothing compared to a loyal fuzzy friend* who seems to want nothing more than your attention and affection. And Rosie was definitely that kind of cat.
Rosie was a sweetheart, and I will miss her. But I now realize how lucky I am to have Nermal. No matter how many times he wakes me up at 4 a.m. or throws up on my carpet or tries to chew through my computer cord, I will be devastated whenever our time together comes to an end.