smokingboot

We got past Sunday. We made it to Tuesday.

She died yesterday, R and me cuddling her. I recall her turning her head, pushing it against my hand. It was a very gentle end.

I write here and cry again. Wrote it on FB, people have been so kind but I can't answer yet. She was such a feisty little thing when we brought her home from the animal shelter, the smallest of a feral cats litter of nine. They had big bowls they shared food from, so she pushed her way in between her big brothers and sisters to eat. When we met all the cats, she was the first to come forward determined to conquer R's shoe laces. Home she tried to assert dominance over an empty cassette box and the local spider, who moved out. Her new brother would jump on her head if she tried anything with him, it took her about three days to understand that he wanted to play.

Being in charge remained a thing with her. One of my memories of her attitude was the night after my attack. There came a point where we had to sleep somewhere, but the police wouldn't let us back into the house as it was a crime scene. Our excellent neighbours offered us their spare room. The two younger cats would have none of it, hiding in the back garden, but the two eldest came with us. Surya's very first move was to hiss at the neighbours gracious Maine Coons, with that unmistakeable air of This is a hostile takeover! The cats got out of her way. Just as well we could move back the next day or she'd have been annexing their kitchen in the name of Queen Her.

So many beautiful stories about her in my head.

My mother has been dreadful. She started with kind words, and having dispensed with manners, went on to her favourite subject. Cancer? She mused, but the cat didn't seem to be in pain. Never heard of cancer without pain. Did the cat show any evidence of pain? What were the symptoms? It's not so much relishing ghoulish details as leading to where she wants to go which is that maybe that cat didn't have cancer but some rare zootropic disease that I am now carrying because I didn't wear gloves all the time when feeding her. Even if I washed my hands maybe it wasn't enough... And there it is, the one and only destination, obsessive terror over some deadly disease that doesn't even exist.

She was always a hypochondriac, I recall her anger when the doctor told her 'You are a neurotic and you are making your daughter a neurotic.' Mum's attempts to terrify me about animal contact was an indulgence dressed up as necessary discipline. She wanted me to stay away from all animals everywhere, and she utterly harrowed me, pecking at me relentlessly with horrible details of how I was going to die of rabies because I had patted a stray dog. She always called it the only way of getting anything into my head, to stop me endangering myself, and I believe that she believed it. But there was also a tiny part of her that didn't mind seeing me cry until one of her sisters chided her for driving me into hysteria. When the outside world reminded her not to act like a nutter, she stopped. I became that external view yesterday, reminding her that my cat had died not three hours before and she wanted me to dwell on symptoms of pain, that I found such things distressing. Mortified, she went off to make herself lunch.

And I was left to recall kinder things, my little cats lovely life, the joy of being part of that life.

I cannot talk/write about that properly yet. But I remember it very clearly.

My dreams last night were muddled, I have lost the details...But I remember a pot of paint the colour of storm clouds, including that white light around the edge of them.