“I’ve
learned of a baby who needs a good home—just like yours.”
Would
you say that to a person who had just buried their child? Of course not. Yet
you are quick to offer a stray cat hanging around your sister’s house to
acquaintances, grief-stricken over the death of their cat. You beg them to take
the sweet-natured calico an infirm neighbor can no longer properly care for, or
the tabby of a coworker who is relocating, and can’t take her pet with her. You
feel so sorry for those hapless creatures.
So do
I, but like you, not enough to offer them our home. And certainly not enough to
feed them from my baby’s dishes, play with his toys, or sleep in his favorite
places.
At
times I see him in those places, and smile. I also see him cock his little head
as he sits, his two white-booted feet pressed tightly together in front of him.
“What…you’re busy? Like I should care you’re busy? I want to play. With you.
Now.”
Yes,
animals do talk. Like humans, they express themselves with body language. At
times it can be as clear as any sound uttered out loud. As with person-to-person
communication, sometimes we miss the message. My husband and I missed it with
KittyCat’s illness. So did his regular veterinarian. The next vet we rushed him
to, Dr. Christy Webb, caught it. But the antibiotics and breathing treatments
that could have saved him, had they begun earlier, mocked us with false hope.
KittyCat endured horrific distress his last night on this earth.
“Oh,
KittyCat,” I’ve sobbed a thousand times, “how your daddy and I loved you. How
your suffering tortures us still. And we miss you terribly.”
“People,
stop!” I’ve wanted to scream several times. On behalf of anyone who has lost a
precious pet lately, stop. Please stop giving us your ideas about what will fill the vacancy in
our homes and hearts.
We
may appear to have moved on. We act with our usual professionalism at work. We
attend functions, hopefully displaying courtesy and friendliness. We perform
our daily responsibilities.
But
in private moments, we cry.
