The world is a little less weird today, a little less explosive, a little less giddy and grand. We’ve lost the phenomenon known as Hootz.
There is no good way to lose a cat. Preparation doesn’t make us prepared. Sudden loss doesn’t spare us long grief. There is no good way.
Winnie the Pooh said it best: “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
There is something artificial about setting aside one particular day to remember. Artificial, yes. But also merciful.
We debate the following to no end at Tabby’s Place: Is it easier to say goodbye when we’ve had a long time to prepare? Or does the suddenness of loss spare us a searing season of grief?
The following comes with gracious permission from Gigi‘s adopter, Dave. I could not possibly add to the power of his words, so I gratefully reprint them here in full.
I very nearly titled this post, “Cat knows not her time.” On second thought, however, perhaps she does.
Every once in a great while, you feel the tectonic plates of life shift. It may start with a groan or a whimper, but the next thing you know the continents are different, and there are mountains where oceans once stretched. I am, of course, talking about cats.