Breakup Songs for Cats

I was listening to a This American Life podcast one August evening this summer. The topic was breakups.

It made me think about a particularly bad breakup that took place in August years ago. And then – ugh, I put it out of my mind because while I’m happy with my life and grateful for the way things turned out, at the time it was devastating. There’s no need to dredge up old pain.

After the podcast ended, I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and check on Milo. I saw him lying under a chair, a pile of fur. He didn’t even look like a cat. Just a mess of puffed up, black cat hair. When I stepped back into the living room he was sitting up, watching me.

I whispered, “I’m coming to get you,” and starting walking towards him slowly with big, exaggerated steps and my arms up like Frankenstein. I paused, “I’m going to kiss your head,” then moved closer. When I was four feet away, I could hear him purr. I started crying, but kept going until I smooched his head anyway.

It made me think there’s something missing in the genre of songs about the loss of love. I haven’t heard any about the loss of a pet. The pain is deep and aching, and is something that so many of us go through. So why not?

One segment of the podcast was about a woman who was so immersed in breakup songs that she wrote and recorded one of her own to help deal with her loss. Much of the sentiment in songs about broken love touch into the same heartache over the thought of losing Milo. There’s disbelief and aching sadness. There’s a flood of memories. There’s a feeling that a very real piece of me is being cut away. The worst feeling is the one that hits me when I go about my day and suddenly remember that he’s sick, and that someday, even if he made it through this illness, he’s going to die. That remembering – it’s a sudden shock that pounces on me, over and over.

Life changes so quickly. One thing I could count on was that every time I walked through my front door, Milo would be home, waiting for me. When I was grieving the deaths of family members or the endings of relationships, he was a consistent source of comfort. Through the upheaval of quitting my job and the neurosis of writing a book and the ups and downs of starting a business, he has been there. For nearly twelve years, Milo has been there.

I told him, “Don’t leave me. I need you.”

He’d been sick since the end of June, vomiting and not eating much, and dropped from an already tiny ten pounds down to seven. In July, he had to stay the night at the hospital for the first time. It was after 11PM when I went home without him, walked into my house and noticed all the markers of his life there. His food bowl, scratching post, toys. Cat hair on the edge of my blanket.

I got up early the next day to drive to the hospital to check on him. He was much better. He was alert and busy checking out the exam room. He ate some food and tried to scratch the cabinets and the seat covers. I stopped him, but appreciated his willfulness. He kept a wary eye on the door.

Once home, he would get better and then he would get worse. He was diagnosed with lymphoma in the intestines. His twice daily medicines were adjusted. We grew to hate the many trips to the hospital, although I’m grateful for their care. The good days went by so quickly. The bad ones stretched out painfully.

A couple of weeks ago, he lay next to me on the couch, his back against my stomach. This is my favorite way to sit close together, but not his, so whenever he curled up next to me I held onto the moment as long as I could.

Some web sites say indoor cats average 12 – 18 years. My vet used to say he could live into his twenties and that is what I’ve expected. Twelve is not long enough.

The prognosis for his cancer is up to three years. My attitude changed. I’ll take three more years. Three more years is great. Please give me three more years.

I want a love song for my cat. And for all the brokenhearted women and men like me. Where’s our song about knowing he’s going to leave and not wanting to accept it? Where’s the song for after he’s gone, when all that’s left are the tufts of fur in the corners of the room?

Milo passed away on Friday with the help of our home vet. In his last few days he stopped making his adorable meow-els, but he gave me one last purr as we said goodbye.

It was a life well lived. A life well loved.

Tags: letting go