Time May Change Me

Theme song: Changes

First things first: In case you thought the ladies don't rock, check out the bassist, Gail Ann Dorsey. She's on MySpace, the official site for dead people (even though she's not dead).

Which brings me to my cat, Pilar, who, as of this weekend is, in fact, dead.

I never truly believed she would do such a thing, extreme weight loss, incontinence and a basic inability to get off the couch aside.

Friends, it was Kitty Hospice around here for about a week and now those days are gone.

I am left asking myself: What does it all mean?

In this case, Pilar was not only a companion in the present, she represented my past. She walked with me through three lifetimes: wife to mother, mother to (gay) divorcée and (gay) divorcée to international business woman.

What seems stranger? That all of this happened in only 16 years or that I will, in fact, never see her again? It's only been a couple of days but still I don't quite believe it.

I heard her come into the bedroom and try to jump on the bed with the boys and me while I was reading to them -- only to disappear into the cold, hard fact that she is dead.

I left the door open for her today, only to realize she wouldn't be coming through.

Death always seems to demand that we question ourselves and our lives. We reckon. I've been wondering:

Who am I without this beloved creature?

How did I get here? Where did all those years go? What did I do with them?

My witness, sad to say, is as dead as my past.

Which leaves me with the dreaded: What's next?

It's a generational thing. First the cat goes, then I do.

Well, okay. Unlike kitty, I have miles to go before I sleep.

And certainly I hope someone will clean my butt as nicely as I cleaned hers those last few days.

You know, I was glad to do it. Dying can be messy, but death is as clean and sharp as a dividing line.

What I loved about the cat was her furry little face and her crazy green-gold eyes. She always looked at me as if she really didn't know what the h*** I was talking about, but that didn't matter. She accepted me for who I am: A person who delivers cat food as needed and scratches under the chin as desired.

The girl would stretch her neck out and wrinkle her nose, pushing her whiskers forward and lean into the pleasure for as long as she could stand the indignity of it all.

Then, too, she allowed me to pat her haunches and call her Kidiot.

Plus, she was a talker -- a yeller, even. (Could this explain why, despite all requests, my boys yell in the house? Hmmm.)

The cat and I had a very deep, personal understanding and her death reflected it.

I really did not want to put her down, but things were getting dicey. I couldn't say how much pain she was in, though honestly she didn't complain much -- just a few protesting type meows in her final 24 or so hours.

The last time we spoke, she was sitting by her water bowl, too tired to drink.

I got down on my belly and kissed her little nose. I told her I knew she might have to die soon and I said I wouldn't try to keep her but, then again, she could take as long as she needed (who knows how much control the dying have over death?).

I thanked her for her loyalty and her friendship (how many times did Pilar sit quietly with me while I cried my river?).

I smoothed back the fur under her whiskers, a gesture familiar to us both, and I told her I loved her very much.

That night, she died in her sleep, curled in much the same dark brown ball I've known for years. I don't know if she did that on purpose, just for me, but I believe that, given a choice, she would have.

Friends, I never wanted a dead cat, but a dead cat is what I have.

Pilar Bodega, 1997 to 2013, R.I.P.

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