(In the last post I informed you guys that my precious, dearly beloved cat, Athos has recently passed. I’m still not ready to talk about certain elements of the whole situation, but I do want to share my thoughts and feelings of grief as I become ready to share with you – mostly in the form of practically journal entries I’ve been writing to myself since Athos passed – along the way.
I hope you don’t mind me sharing. I haven’t always had the courage to express my more emotional and deeper feelings on the internet, as it is incredibly scary, and I would like to start to try. Thank you so much for your support already. Your words mean the world. You are all so amazing and I appreciate your words of comfort dearly).
Why does three cats feel like so much more than two?
The house was quiet after you died. The other two aren’t so chatty. They don’t yell at me to pick them up or cry to wake me up in the morning to be fed.
They don’t meep when I disturb them from their sunbathing to check on them, take a picture of how cute they are, give them a little pet.
They don’t meow to inform me they’re going to the bathroom, don’t object the whole time I am scooping the food at feeding time – tell me I am taking far too long, to hurry up and hand over the kibs.
They don’t make so much noise when they walk. Nimbler on their feet. I used to call you three my old man cats, but you always seemed far older. I knew you would be the first to go, we all did, always all knew, but still, it hurts so much. There is never enough time.
Two cats is so much quieter than three.
Then there is the care – the mental load I had that I ascribed to taking care of “the cats.” I didn’t realize how much of that was me accommodating you. The other two are just.. well, easy.
Too easy. It’s unfair. I kept thinking when you got your medications – diuretics twice a day from the vet, plus a blood thinner so you didn’t throw a clot, “One day I will miss all this trouble because it will mean you are no longer with me. I want this to go on as long as it can.”
It wasn’t long at all. But you were changed the day I discovered your cough. You weren’t well, you had taken a turn, and I knew something was off. I wouldn’t stop stressing over you on that day, but it’s because I knew. I just knew. Something was not right. You were not yourself.
And now there are two bowls rather than three.
And our hardwood floors stay tidier because the other cats don’t end up with half the litter on their tails, flinging it out when they leave the box.
I sleep better because they don’t beat the litter – then the box itself – then the top entry lid of the box – scratching away like mad men for 10 minutes after they use it. I am a light sleeper, and would wake up to tell you, “That’s good Athos,” like I always did when you’d use it. Would quite literally drag you out of the box to stop your OCD tendencies from continuing for many long, noisy minutes. Then that signature Athos sneeze, that Bjorn has too, to say, “Ok got it.” And a shake it off and a scratch on the post sometimes.
The house is so quiet. And the other boys without you just don’t know how to play with each other.
You were always the one Bjorn would go to. It took him in long before you, but he never knew how to play with Avery. You did. I don’t know how. But Avery took to you, and now they’re both hyper – I can tell, because they come to me with wild in their eyes, and clasp me with their claws to play – I hope they learn how to engage in playtime together in your absence.
But they do cuddle together. You helped that become a thing. Avery didn’t used to curl up with Bjorn before you came into our home.Even the last few days before you died, he’d let you smoosh up completely against him, stare at Bjorn who gave you a considerable amount of space – a whole foot away – and bat him away while you were still seated right next to him.
You were so his favourite. He’s not even a cat cat. He gets so annoyed with other cats. I don’t know how you did it.
Or rather I do. I know just how, but I was still surprised when you did nonetheless. You wormed his way into your heart with your bravery and your understanding of personal bubbles, with your calm, sits there and doesn’t move, cozy comfy potato energy. With your chill vibes.
You were a cat he could jive with. And he did.
The house feels so quiet that I’ve considered taking in a third cat – something I literally never could have imagined crossing my mind the first few days without you.
But I couldn’t now and I don’t think I could for a very long time, because I realized I was just missing and trying to get back you.
I’ve done this before. When Aramis had her kittens in my backyard, I thought you were the father. It took us ages to find out you weren’t. Although, we should have known better, they looked nothing like Persians, which you and her both are – silly of me to think Persian cats “change” to look that way and don’t come out looking different.
I wanted one of her male kittens because I wanted a version of you. I loved you so much when you were outdoors and we thought you had a family. But didn’t want to take you in case you belonged to something else.
Once Aramis had her kittens, and we lost all but one – I decided I had to do something, that I could not go through this again, that she needed to be fixed, the pregnancy and kittens were so hard on her, and she lost all but one even with copious amounts of effort and support on our part trying to keep them alive.
And so I took you in, and I finally had my dream of having a collection of little old man cats in my home. I am so glad I took you in because I hadn’t realized how poorly you were doing outside. How matted your fur was and how painful it must have been. Because you’d sit in the rain and make it worse, but also because even if you had a family, even if you hadn’t been utterly abandoned, which the vets here all say is quite common, that family didn’t do a good job at all caring for your health. Making sure you were okay. They abandoned your needs even if they were somewhere still around.
You were so happy to be inside. You used to scratch on the window when you first came in and I thought you really wanted to go out, so I plopped you on the ground outdoors and you jumped to where we used to feed you. I’d laughed so hard when I realized you didn’t mean you wanted to be outside. You just couldn’t communicate you wanted your old food. So I gave you it back and gradually weaned you off it – so much filler, not a good food. But I could see how you were obsessed with the taste.
Three cats felt like so much more than two. Two is company, three’s a crowd, and I loved feeling like I had a crowd of cats with you.
Now things feel more lonely, the other cats also aren’t literally constantly on my lap. Bjorn comes a lot, and Avery is a snuggle bug, too. But it’s not constant like you. You would be on my lap right now if you were here, and I’d be doing my best not to move to disturb you. Because I knew you’d be sitting like a potato on me for hours and it made you uncomfortable if I moved, and you just wanted to be there as long as you could.
Even when I’d have all three of you in my lap at once – so often – you often used to come first, then the others would follow, trickling in one by one, slowly, after they’d seen that we’d settled. And I’d rearrange everyone, to make sure there was room for all.
And often you’d stay there, all three, snuggled, long after I had to leave the couch.
They don’t follow me like a shadow around the house as you did. Though they once used to. Don’t worry, though, they have stepped up and are coming to me a bit more often than when you were here, even though it’s warmer weather and that usually makes you all less snuggly. I think they were giving you your space. Your quality time with me. I miss those days but I know we made the most of every day with you.
Any new cat I would take in right now – I know – I would be comparing to you.
That’s completely not okay, and I know – I will only be ready to take in a new cat when I am not looking for a replacement.
Looking for another Athos.
There can and will never be another Athos. Another you. You cannot and will never be replaced.
I need to take a new cat because I fall in love with them. For who they are. Then I will know I am ready. That will be the day, if it comes, that I will have three furballs in my house again. Or maybe it may take longer, who can say.
I told these two they cannot die on me. That I need them to live as long as they can – Bjorn at least. And Avery’s gotta stick it out and live practically forever. He’s as healthy as a horse and isn’t a breed, so I hope he sticks around for donkey’s years. I can’t be down to one. Not any time soon.
But every morning and every night, when I take out the bowls and there are only two to fill, every time my lap is empty when I’m seated for a while, every time there are two cats snuggled up on the bed – my heart bleeds. My heart bleeds.
I miss you baby. I will always miss you.
I am a Cat Dad says
When my first cat named “Luna” passed away, I was like the most depressed person in the world. I still missed her.
Meezer'sMews&TerrieristicalWoofs says
Whata beautiful, heartfilled, and heartwrenching tribute to your sweet Athos. Hugs.🥰
Elise Xavier says
Thank you ever so much for taking the time to read it and leave a comment. Your presence and kind comments and words have helped me feel less alone <3
Brian's Home ~ Forever says
I know, I know, the new normal is so hard to grasp and it seems impossible at times, lots of times. It eventurally happens. Hugs from all of us.
Elise Xavier says
I’m a little late, but I read this the day you posted it and it hit so close to home for me. Very few words, but all the right words, thank you so much for your comment, they brought me great comfort in feeling understood and not-so alone, which has been a somewhat rare feeling for me, as grief is something so personal and alienating, even when you are grieving with others who have known and loved the very same being. Thank you again xo