The Time it Takes to Let Go

A short eulogy for a long life.

I am not sure where today is going to go. I’m just writing a quick note before dinner so that this can go live tomorrow morning. Spoiler alert, I don’t get up and write these before I post them. I know that comes as quite a shock.

My wife’s cat, the one she originally wanted before I told her to also get Max, passed away last week. She was almost 17 years old. That’s your warning about what’s coming.

Zoe and Max were adopted as the first Christmas gift I ever gave Adrianne. She had never had pets of her own and she loves cats. So, I told her that I would adopt her a cat for Christmas. She decided to get two and I said okay, then your gift is two cats.

It could have gone poorly. Our relationship was still young and undefined. But, I loved her then and it was something important for her and her journey. Marriage changes you a lot, but in the way that all relationships do. At least meaningful ones. But Max and Zoe were her first real pets. They were all hers. And when you care about someone, you want your gifts to be meaningful.

Max was everything Adrianne wanted in a cat. He was sociable. He was playful. Once a dog came into the equation, he adopted Dexter too. Max was a great cat to everyone in the world. Except Zoe. Zoe was bullied by Max. Some of it we knew, but some of it didn’t come to light until after he passed away.

Max would deny Zoe access to the litterbox. She would pee outside the litterbox constantly and we tried everything we could to help solve it. We tried sprays, vet visits, training the whole nine. Max was clever, he attacked when no one was watching. He was a bully, but he hid it so well.

Zoe had been a feral rescue. She was naturally skittish. Hated people, other animals and sometimes it seems like she hated the air she breathed. She would be incredibly standoffish until about 2 AM, when she decided she wanted my attention. She would cry loudly and slam her head into mine until I pet her. She would drool on me when she finally got what she wanted.

She was always a ghost who haunted our house. Some people were blessed to see her, but they almost always heard her. When Max died, we hoped that she was coming out of her shell. She did, kind of, until we got Dipper. Who treated her with reverence. Who just wanted to be her friend so badly.

But Zoe didn’t want friends. She didn’t want companionship. She didn’t want anything unless it was explicitly on her terms. And when she didn’t get things exactly the way she wanted them, she would hide away.

Zoe was a hard cat to love. Harder to like. We did everything we could to give her the best life possible. We separated her and Max anytime something was amiss (and they did spend a lot of time together NOT engaged in warfare). We got different litterboxes, tried them in so many different places. We gave them separate spaces, but she was stubborn. She wanted what she wanted.

I sometimes see that same dogged determination in others. So desperate for attention, but only on their terms. People who have a hand extended and won’t reach out to grab it. Zoe had a hard life. I don’t say that about our pets often, they live very good lives for the most part. They get a lot of socialization, exercise, training, good food and lots of love. Zoe did too. Some of her hard life was because she chose to live that way, even when there was another option available.

She had a bully in her life that was also her closest companion. And Max was good at keeping his abuses under wraps. Anyone who met him would tell you what a wonderful cat he was. And a lot of times he was. I could probably make a compelling allegory for other victims and there’s a lot of overlap there. I don’t want to be reductive, though. Humans have a capacity of empathy in a way that cats don’t.

I would be lying, however, if I can’t take a lesson from her life. A reminder that people won’t reach out for the hand that is offered because they might not believe it. That we can’t always see the struggles that others go through. What it really serves as is a reminder that I have to keep putting my hand out when I can. That I have an obligation to show up when it matters. And that even if someone has a way out, they can’t always see it. They can’t always take it.

I’m not sad that Zoe is gone. I think it was a mercy in a lot of ways. She did get to die on her own terms, asleep in her room. And I take comfort in knowing that we could handle a difficult cat and give them a better life than they might have gotten. It does feel like our house is a little less haunted now, and not in a good way.

I’m also reminded that even when you try your best, you don’t always get the outcome you want. We can’t make choices for others, even sometimes for our own pets. They have their own thoughts, their own feelings. All we can do is create a space for people to feel safe with those feelings and a place to guide them through them.

Goodbye little cat.