May
5 , 2001
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Yesterday Cleo's rosebush arrived. We'll plant it by her grave outside. We're looking for a statue of a sleeping cat, but haven't found anything yet. The first week was even harder than I expected. Of course I knew I'd grieve, but I didn't expect that I wouldn't be able to work, I wouldn't be able to eat — in fact felt physically nauseous, wouldn't be able to sleep. But each day did get a little bit better. I wrote long entries into my journal. I went for walks every day, and every day the walk got longer until I was walking for two hours. Eventually, during these walks, my mind would turn to all the funny things Cleo did that made her so endearing to me. I also read several books on pet loss. Puss turned into our little kitty alarm clock, waking us up at 6:30 am with surprisingly deep meows. Our vet thought maybe she was calling Cleo. A friend suggested she was making sure we knew she was still there. Eventually we left the bedroom door open at night, and the morning alarms stopped. Puss slept with us for a couple of nights — on me, in fact — then she abandoned the bedroom at night. I bought a small garden ornament in the shape of a cat with wind chimes, which I put near Cleo's grave. I like to think that she talks to me through those chimes. I realized, in retrospect, that subconsciously I knew something was happening with Cleo in March. I didn't sign up for Spring classes like I usually do; I didn't want my parents to have my car all day while they were visiting, even though Cleo seemed perfectly fine and my parents commented on how good she looked. My head knew, but my heart was in denial. As much as I miss Cleo, I am ready for a new cat to fill the void. I go to the Humane Society, and we plan to go to see some cats from a pet rescue organization this weekend, as well as our friends' kittens. Now the story turns to Puss, who also has CRF. |
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