So Much Can Change in a Year

May 15, 2012. We were having a lovely birthday dinner for my friend Jan at a restaurant where the food was delicious as the atmosphere was elegant. The converted home-turned-inn was once owned by one of the executives at Oldsmobile when cars were young and we weren't even born. The wood walls were rich and polished, the paintings suitable for a spot like "Downton Abbey" and the service elegant. We were dining with friends visiting from California. It was a happy occasion.

And yet, I wasn't. Any gaiety on my part was false. Forced. I knew the next day would be one of the hardest of my life.

We returned home and I said to Rick, "Unless Gypsy shows an improvement tomorrow, we have to call Dr. Anne. It's time to let him go."

That night, we went to bed. Gypsy could barely walk, his poor back legs giving out on him, his once overly-plump body a gaunt, fur-covered skeleton. We had to feed him baby food on my finger. As Dr. Anne said, "He was wasting away," the kidney disease taking its final toll.

When we woke in the morning, somehow -- through the grace of God, I think -- this wee, weak, beloved creature had somehow -- we have no idea how -- made his way into our bed. It was the ultimate gesture of love, Gypsy's gift.

We drew him between us, and when we woke to call Anne, we left him there, where he stayed until soon before she arrived.

When we sat in the yard, under the unseasonably warm May sun, holding our boy, Dr. Anne came, and helped him through the last hour or so. There was warm, a gentle breeze, and if we weren't saying goodbye, it would have been a perfect day.

Gypsy was more than fourteen. He had come to us as a dumped kitten and this wee ball of orange fur quickly won our hearts.

He lived for treats. For Fancy Feast. For cuddles and love, forcing his way onto my lap no matter what I was reading, knitting or writing. He ruled the screened in porch at the lake.

He was legendary for the catching of a mouse and presenting it to me at five in the morning in bed. Not our finest hour, I think, but a memorable one.

 

And he always let us know exactly what he thought.

 

I've rarely known such grief. For my parents, yes. Maybe once or twice otherwise. Maybe. I truly thought I would never heal from this deep, impossible sorrow.

I wasn't sure either of us would. He was Rick's cat as much as mine.

 

A year has passed. We grieved long and deeply.

We had vacations up north and out west. Kevin graduated and became engaged. Greg was finding more work as a working artist, including two gigs at the Detroit Institute of Arts. Rick had a summer bike crash, then MRSA. And you know I've had my share of trials.

But we did learn to smile and love again. And while Lizzie Cosette is not Gypsy, she is Lizzie Cosette. We love them both. 

But we'll never forget our sweet boy.