Saying Goodbye

I gave up my cat yesterday.

The reasons aren’t really relevant at the moment, but suffice it to say that it had to be done. It moved, quietly and unexpectedly, from a possibility to a probability to a certainty. There was no small amount of denial on my part, accompanying honest and sincere attempts at prevention and amelioration. But when I finally realized I couldn’t keep Wesley, it hit me like a hammer.

(Presumably. I have no idea what getting hit by a hammer feels like, aside from a minor “ouch, I missed the nail” sort of way. It was much worse than that, with a much larger hammer.)

There was no way I’d ever consider taking him to the humane society, and I’d have been extremely reluctant to leave him with anyone I didn’t already know, or who at least came with a strong recommendation from a good friend. Thankfully, neither of these options was necessary, as my parents were willing to adopt Wesley.

They were more than willing. They were thrilled, as they love Wesley. They fuss over him whenever they come to visit, and on the few occasions I’ve taken him to visit them, he’s had a lot of fun with their three-year-old Siamese. (after some initial hissing and growling, of course; Satchel, the Siamese, enjoys sneaking up on Wesley from behind at every opportunity, which is a particularly unwelcome strategy when Wesley is trying to eat.)

It’s altogether a good situation for Wesley: A bigger house with a backyard (and accompanying birds and squirrels to stalk and/or be afraid of), another cat to play with and two loving “parents” to pamper him. It’s hard not to see that as an improvement over staying with me, where he’d have a smallish two-bedroom, several rooms of which he’d be shut out of, no access to outside, and just me to give him his daily rationing of affection.

It made the decision much easier. But it still felt like I was ripping out one of my internal organs. Worse than that, because I don’t have any particular sense of duty or responsibility to my kidney. (Though I am extremely squeamish where needles and scalpels are concerned.)

First, there’s the general principle: A pet is supposed to be forever. You make a commitment to look after it, not just when it’s convenient for you. So I feel like a failure on some level.

More importantly, it feels like I’m giving up a huge part of my life. For the past four years, no matter what happened – lousy jobs, dysfunctional relationships, good moods and bad moods – Wesley was there to meet me when I got home. Yes, it was largely because he wanted to be fed, but there was also some small amount of affection. He’d sit on the couch with me, claw at my chair when I spent too much time on the computer, and hop into bed with me at the end of the day. And in the morning, if I slept too late, he’d bite my face to let me know it was time to eat.

At the beginning, Wesley picked me out. When I went to the Toronto Humane Society in search of a cat – an exciting but saddening experience for any animal lover – he stood up against the bars of his cage when I walked by. Maybe he did that for everyone, but it didn’t matter. I walked around for a bit looking at other cats, but my decision had been made for me.
When I filled out paperwork, I received his medical records. He’d been found in rough shape, bad nutrition and hostile, and the notes suggested the possibility he’d have to be put down. Thankfully he didn’t, and after a visit with a foster family there was little sign of the vision problems or weak hind leg that were noted on the form. He was friendly and relaxed, the only sign of his time on the streets a slight notch in one ear.

When I brought him home, I expected him to run for cover as soon as I let him out of his box. But he took his time getting out, and proceeded to pace around my apartment for half an hour before finally finding a comfortable spot under my bed. He was a bit skittish if you stood right in front of him or snuck up on him, but settled in quite quickly.
Perhaps that’s the worst part of it: Wesley’s the most relaxed and easy-going cat I’ve ever known. He’s rarely made anything resembling an escape attempt, preferring to stay close to home; the closest he’s come is sneaking under the balcony divider and walking into my neighbour’s living room one summer evening, an event I’m fairly certain was mostly accidental.

Which makes it more likely that someone abandoned him. Someone couldn’t, or wouldn’t, look after him, and left him on the street, where he almost died.

Not that you’d ever know it if you met him. But that thought stays with me. And aside from the principles and the memories and friendship, perhaps that’s what makes giving him up so hard.

It’s not comparable, at all. I know that. Wesley is, if you’ll excuse an expression that makes it sound like he’s dead, in a better place. He was nervous at first, and a bit grumpy towards my parents’ other cats, but was settling in by the time I had to leave. Not that that made leaving any easier; I spent much of the day feeling miserable, depressed, and occasionally nauseous. I considered staying another day, but I knew I’d still feel same way the next day, or the next week.

And so I left, and didn’t feel too bad on the bus ride home.

I was just about feeling almost okay by the time I got home. Until I put my key in the lock, and realized there was no one waiting for me. No cat to feed, no litter to change, nothing to do at all but amuse myself. The silence and emptiness was striking, different from almost every day of the past four years.

I’m still getting used to it. It’ll take some time. One day, hopefully not too far, but without being disrespectfully soon, I’ll come home and not immediately notice what’s missing.