There is one keepsake I have, which always sends my mind swarming in a beehive of memories. It’s not one I’m able to feel, hear, or smell. At least not anymore. It remains imprisoned in the digital penitentiary of my cell phone, manifesting itself in an amalgam of nearly microscopic squares. What remains is a pixelated mess which creates a picture of my dear cat Oliver. It depicts him sprawled on his back, his paws hooked. His voluptuous orange-brown fur draping across the light blue tiles leading inwards from the front door. It brings back a plethora of memories, good and bad. Memories of running my then miniature hands through his fur and feeling the soft rumble of his purring. Emerging from the shower and sitting down on the couch as he pounces up behind me and starts grooming my hair as if I was one of his kin. Memories like these made him a friend to me. Even more so, he was a comfort object. I cared about him dearly like I hadn’t anything else. However, this isn’t a feeling I can feel anymore. The one memory which trumps them all took place in autumn of 2011 or 2012. My cat had a tendency to escape the house often. Like a caged bird, he desired to be free. He would instantly find refuge underneath our deck. The darkness and fallen leaves disguised his mounds of fur. A natural hunter. However, one night, he was pray instead. I had woken up one morning to prepare for the upcoming day of school. The sun started to peek through my windows, and to me it was the sign of a good day. I instantly went to the door to let in my beloved cat, but his normal childish prance was now more of a lethargic sulk. I reached down to pet him and run my hands through his fur as I usually did. However, when I brought up my hand, it was instead covered in a scarlet tint. It was clear my cat was bleeding. I quickly alerted my mom, exclaiming
“Oliver is bleeding! We need to take him to the vet!”
To only be turned down with the simple explanation
“There’s nothing we can do right now, after I get out of work we can take him.”
With that, it was time to go to school. The journey through the now multicolored woods was a bittersweet one. I was visibly uncomfortable, and my mom took notice to this. We had started to make our way through the mists of Deer Lake, when my mom finally decided she would give me the option to stay home. I instantly snapped at the chance. We pulled into the nearest driveway and retraced the way we came so I could stay home to take care of my cat. I wanted to make him as comfortable as I possibly could. I kept him on a small pink towel, one I was hoping wouldn’t be missed by my mom. Next to him, another white and blue towel, slightly smaller, adorned with a small pink bowl full of food and a clear bowl with water. He didn’t care for these offerings I had left for him. I checked up on him constantly, even though most of my time was spent sitting next to him, stroking him slowly, my hand drifting through his fur as it had so many times before. This time, I wasn’t welcomed with his purring anymore, it was just silence. I could tell he was in pain. There was a period of time in which he escaped my watch and became reclusive within the confines of my dresser. Making a home behind some the drawers. I had a feeling he felt safe there. Hours past, and he didn’t leave his position. It was finally time for my mom to come home so we could take him to the vet to see if I could save my friend. He was more than just a friend to me. He acted as a comfort object. A teddy bear which was warm and fluffy. He was a loving pet, and I was more than happy to reciprocate said love. I heard the hum of the engine pulling into the driveway, and I prepared to excavate him from the inner confines of my dresser. We pulled out the drawers and wrapped a towel around him, putting him inside of his cat carrier. He let out several banshee wails and screeches of pain which made my blood curdle. Knowing the friend I had made over the past 4 years was in such a massive amount of pain was unsettling to me. Ages passed while I clinged tightly to his cat carrier during the drive to the vet as thoughts of my time spent with him went flying through my head like planes. I thought about all of the times I would bring him in my room and hold him in my arms until I felt ready to fall asleep. The memories of laying on my back next to him and scratching his stomach while I listen to him purr in delight. The stories I could tell of him nibbling on me and playing with me. I was hopeful he would be okay. I prayed he would be able to heal and live. I didn’t want to lose my friend. All of the memories and things I thought about would never happen again. We sat in the cool, air conditioned waiting room of the vet for hours. The bleak gray-blue walls stood out to me as how bleak this kind of place was. It assuredly didn’t bring any hopeful feelings. It was nearly 7 o’ clock when our name was called to bring him in. He was finally put down onto the cold metal table at the vet. He sulked down and remained motionless. I stroked him in an attempt to try to keep him calm and for the first time all day, I had finally gotten the purr I longed to hear again. I cared about him. I wanted him to be happy and safe like I would any one of my family members. Time seemed to creep by. We sat for another period of time which felt like hours to me, but must have only been a few minutes. My muscles were an earthquake through the entire process. I was afraid. More than I had been in a long time. Oliver eventually hopped down carefully off of the metal table and hid in a small compartment. It reminded me of the times he would hide in the furniture as a kitten. I would be left to wonder “Why does he hate me?” until he decided to crawl out of his recluse again. I was snapped out of my deep thought when one of the nurses walked in. The nurse had finally told us they were going to take him into the back, shave him, and figure out what was wrong with him. Now it was time to wait even more. Now the guilt started to hit me. I felt like this was all my fault. It was the one day I didn’t get down on my knees and pry him out from underneath the deck as I had done before. That night I didn’t sit down there all night trying to encourage him to come out with food and treats. It was all my fault and I knew it. I wanted to already start crying. I never meant for my cat to get hurt. For a few hours, I just sat. I reflected on everything that had happened until once again I was snapped out of it when the vet entered. The vet came into the room to talk to us.
“Your cat was attacked by what we think is a large dog. He has deep cuts on his stomach and intestinal damage. The only options we have are surgery or putting him down.”
“How much would the surgery cost?” My mom inquired.
“The surgery isn’t a guaranteed success, but it is going to cost 8000 dollars to operate on him.”
Tears started welling up in my eyes. I knew there would be no way we could afford the surgery for my cat. He was going to die. The fuzzy friend I cared about since I got him. The cat I had wanted for several years prior. Wasn’t going to exist anymore. I was devastated. Tears rolled down my face in saline rivers. I thought it was unfair. One thought kept going through my mind. It was “What did I do to deserve this?” and I truly didn’t know. Even if I had done something wrong, at this point in time I was instantly regretting it. I wanted to go back in time and change everything so none of this would have happened. It hit me as a great loss, and affects me still to this day. Looking at the picture at my phone brings back all of these memories and more, but also brings with it an overwhelming wave of sadness. But I’ve come to realize death is going to be a part of life. I’ll have to deal with it several times in my life and I already have. It’s something I’ve come to accept. Everyone I’ve ever been close to will someday no longer exist except for in a hole in the ground and I’ll eventually end up the same way. Death never used to hit me as hard as it does now. As a child, my parents would get dressed up and would gloomily attend funerals for people they knew. I always turned a blind eye to it. The idea of a funeral meant nothing to me. Having several experiences now of having to deal with the deaths of people and pets close to me has stripped this ignorance from me and I feel it has made me the better person in the process. I now know how to deal with it, and how to help people and myself through it. All through my own experiences.