I got mad at Maya today.  She’s been especially unsettled this past week.  She didn’t seem to mind when Bryn never returned last weekend.  I wonder if there might be a delay in her reaction.  Clingier than normal, she won’t give me a minute of peace while I’m at home.   After spending a whole afternoon trying to hold her and getting rebuked I finally snapped, “What do you want from me?” 

She rolls onto her side rubbing a cheek along the carpet and looks back up at me.  “Mrow?”

I miss her too.  Having another cat in the house meant they could split duties.  Bryn covered feeding times, fly killing and string chewing.  Maya polices litter box cleaning and general shenanigan management.  They kept separate sleep schedules because all functional couples still need time alone.  Maya isn’t used to being alone all the time.  It’s not something she’s ever had to comprehend.  My hollow presence during this week of depression isn’t enough support.  I can’t blame her for being bitchy.

The easy solution is to get another cat.  In my past life it wouldn’t even be a question.  Some helpless kitten would find its way into my life the way wasps nest under eaves.  Just a part of nature in the South.  Maya would equally love and hate a kitten.  Unfortunately, there’s no more progression on that timeline.  The age of pet ownership is winding to a close.  I know too well the extra time and money that goes into furry companionship.  In the life I’ve chosen those are luxuries I can’t afford.

My pets are so ingrained in my personal mythology it’s an involuntary expense.  At my most heartless, I still show concern for the animals.  They didn’t choose to live alongside humanity.  The level of grace most cats exhibit in the face of stupidity is astounding.  I trust most dogs more than almost any human.  Don’t even get me started on what horses have to teach us.

I see my fat cat rolling on the ground and wonder how much longer she’s with me.  Could she be trying to tell me about hidden pain like Bryn was?  Am I keeping her in a torturous state of complacency where she neither enjoys life or fears death?  How can I do anything except hold and love her knowing that each day could be her last one?  Fill the bowls, empty the box.  Day in, day out until she’s so old and feeble I notice she’s dying.  What’s the other option?  Preemptively put her to sleep knowing it can’t get better so at least I avoid worse?

These thoughts don’t help.  I don’t know what else to do with them.  My usual avenues of support have all come up empty.  I’m hurt in a deep part of my heart.  I can’t reach the exact spot and the air burns my throat.  I would go out of my way for something familiar but I can’t remember what I’m used to.  Maybe it’s time to get a Big Mac and some fries?  Fast food is the same no matter where you go.