Goodbye, Stranger

Today's post might seem a little strange to some; I'm memorializing a cat I don't know. In my mind, he's a "he," but perhaps he's a she. I don't even know. I do know that he's small and brown with light orange spots all over. He has long hair and a black collar. We've met many times but never gotten to know one another. I'm pretty sure I annoyed him to no end.

You see, we've seen this kitty a host of times over the past several weeks as we continue to search for Mr. Squiggles. He inhabits the same area Mr. S was last spotted. Every time I would see this little guy, for just a second, I thought he could be my own. Plus, seeing him, a healthy, living, outdoor cat, gave me hope that our own little hunter could survive out there in the big, bad world.

Saturday night, I found my little mystery friend dead. Out checking traps before bed, I spotted something out of the corner of my eye. I stopped the car and backed up to the animal. My headlights only revealed to me that this figure was a dark, long-haired cat. Mr. Squiggles? I had to get out with my flashlight and check. The first thing revealed to me was the tell-tale dark collar, and I knew in that instant that kitty wasn't my own, but the little guy who had given me so much hope across the weeks.

What happened to him? I couldn't tell. He seemed uninjured, but obviously, dead. Perhaps he was sick, or perhaps we was hit by a car. All I know is he deserved better than to end his life along the side of the road, eyes open, tongue out, collecting frost as the night cooled. I wanted to scoop him up and honor him with a proper burial, but the frightened parent inside of me said, "No. He's wearing a collar. Some other family like you could be tortured wondering where he is. They deserve a chance to find him." Three days later, he is still there. We are giving his family more time, but I still ache to rescue him every time I drive by.

Each time I see him, I am reminded that my own boy is still out there, apart from us. By seeing my mysterious friend, I had hope that Mr. S could survive too. Now, seeing his soul-less body lying there, I am reminded that it's a rough, dangerous world. I fear for my boy, and I miss him beyond words. But I also grieve, in my own way, for this little unknown kitty, who merely by existing, provided a small measure of comfort to a frightened girl.

Goodbye, little stranger. I'll miss seeing you around.

The Stages of Grief

It was recently brought to my attention that I am going through the five stages of grief, brought on by the disappearance of our cat, Mr. Squiggles. We still have hope that he'll be found, but the fact remains that he's been missing for one month today. I haven't seen him in over five weeks.

We often think of grief as something that takes place after a loved one dies, but really, any trauma can bring it on. I'm experiencing it now, but I also went through these stages when Indiana was diagnosed with cancer.

1. Denial

Then: This can't possibly be happening! She can't be dying! How could my dog get cancer?

Now: This can't possibly be happening! My cat can't be missing! How could this happen to us?

2. Anger

Then: Why? Why is this happening? This is so unfair! Indiana doesn't deserve this; we don't deserve this. Damn you, God, why are you doing this?

Now: Why? Why is this happening? This is so unfair! We've done everything we can to be good parents, and this is how we are rewarded? Damn you, God, why are you doing this?

3. Bargaining

Then: Ok. What's it going to take to make things right? I'll give anything to save her. I'll give up my career. I love my career. Take it, just save her.

Now: Fix this! Make it right! I'll give anything to have him back. I'm doing everything I can to find him, spending any amount of time and money. We need and deserve him back!

4. Depression

Then: She might die. How will I survive if she dies? Life is so unfair. What is the point? How do I get through this? I'm walking through life with a dark cloud permanently following me.

Now: We might never get him back. He could be dead. Even if he's not, we might never see him again. How can I survive never seeing him again? Was the last time I saw him the last time? Is that the last touch I'll ever have? The last kiss? How do I get through this? I'm walking through life with a could permanently following me.

5. Acceptance

Then: This is awful and scary, but life has to go on. Every day that she survives makes it more likely that she'll live cancer-free for the rest of her days. I have to move past the fear and pain and realize we can beat the cancer.

Now: I haven't reached this stage yet. I don't think I want to.

Every day that he's missing is that much harder. We still have hope, but it gets more difficult. Others don't understand and think there's no way we'll get him back. They are wrong. I have no time or patience anymore for those who don't get it. I don't want to "accept that you might not get him back" or "think about getting another cat." My cat very likely could still be out there, and I will keep looking for him forever. I don't want another cat, because I want back the one I've lost. My life isn't whole with part of my family missing.

I don't know if it's comforting to realize I'm going through the stages of grief. Does it really matter? Perhaps it does. Three years ago, when Indiana was diagnosed with cancer, I thought my world was crashing in. But my strength got me through that crisis, and every day, it gets a little easier to live with a cancer diagnosis. If I could survive that, I can survive this. It's not been easy, but I remain hopeful and strong. Some days I feel like curling up into a ball and never emerging, and I don't try to fight those days too much. As with any roller coaster ride, the dips will be followed by a rise. I just have to ride it out.