When I was a child, I had a cat who I love very much. Note I did not make that past-tense. I still love this cat. Always will. My childhood was not in any means the best of childhoods. There was a lot of loneliness and a lot of feeling shunned. But I had Goose. The day I broke my ankle for the first time, Goose stayed next to me all day. When I was three and had a stomach virus and threw up on Goose, he just cat-shuddered and started to clean himself off (he was very grateful when my mother cleaned him with a wet washcloth). Sometimes my older sister was mean, because that's what older sisters do. Goose would respond by randomly chasing her through the house. I could go on and on and on about this, but I think you guys get the point.
When I was 21 and Goose was 18, he got sick because he was pretty old for a cat. Our vet, who is a tremendous person, didn't even suggest that unthinkable option, and just told me to take Goose home and take care of him. We had a few good last days together, even though he obviously wasn't feeling well. When he started struggling to breathe, I knew it was almost time. I picked him and took him to bed. I lay down with him, cuddling him, holding him to the very end. I told him it was okay, that I would love him forever, that I knew he was tired and had to go. He died peacefully in my arms. I then sobbed hysterically for two hours, and continued to cry for several days after. It's been seven years, and I'm still tearing up writing this. I love him and I miss him to this day.
I had ankle surgery yesterday and am in a lot of pain today. I'm really missing Goose right now. I know if he were here, he would have been by side since the moment I got home. He would have been purring, transmitting the healing sound waves to my body, and just keeping me company.
I walked past his grave tonight with Le Boyfriend, and told him about the most amazing thing another person has done for me.
When Goose died, a good friend of mine was living about 5 hours away and was very pregnant and unable to come be with me. However, she called me and asked what she could do. She asked if she could have her brother come help me bury him. I said yes, because I didn't think it was something I could do.
So, my friend's brother, who I'll call Howie, came over after working a long shift at his retail job. It was raining when he arrived, but without hesitation, he grabbed a shovel and began digging in the spot where I asked him to, rather near the house. Howie dug and dug and dug, and about a foot short of being able to set Goose's casket into the grave, Howie hit the foundation of the house. It was still raining as Howie filled that mostly dug grave back in, and it continued to rain when we went to the second best spot I could think of. Howie dug a second grave. My mom had found a perfect casket for Goose, and I had wrapped him in his favorite fleece throw blanket before placing him in it. Howie gently put that casket in the second grave, rain still pouring down on us, then waited while I placed a dozen roses in the grave and said a tearful good-bye, waited while I tossed in the first handful of dirt, then filled the grave in. He then held me and let sob on him for a good ten minutes.
It's been seven years since the worst 24 hours in my life. And I just want Howie to know I've never forgotten what he did for me that night; what he seemed to not even realize was a big deal and a tremendous thing to do. I deeply appreciate my friend's response of expressing how much she wished it was possible to be with me and for doing the most helpful thing anybody could do for me in that moment. And I will never cease to appreciate that Howie dug the grave at all, but all of the inconvenience he went through. He dug Goose's grave for me. In the rain. TWICE.
Thank you, Howie, for your compassion that night.
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