Sweety Passed Away.

 I'm blogging because I have no shoulder to cry on. Without one, I find myself resisting the urge to bawl my head off. What good would it do? I'm actually relieved, if not a little sorry for myself. 

You see, Sweety was a Maine Coon cat. The problem with them stems from the fact that 15 years ago there was no vaccination against FIV, and Maine Coons were practically born with it. If they didn't have it at birth, the mother spread to to them via her saliva. 

Any cat with already full-blown FIV may or may not respond to current treatment. Those treatments cost a pretty penny - over $1000. Sweety was already 15 years old, frail, and was unable to care for herself. Her fur matted up requiring regular shaving, baths, and endless brushing. There was nothing to do but try to keep up with her never-ending diarrhea, which is often a symptom of FIV, just like it is in HIV. 

Eventually she just became a burden. She destroyed the house regularly. My carpet required constant cleaning. My couch is ruined. Mopping up after her was such a chore that my back was giving out. 

Sweety was my last connection with her mother, Bushy Bush (I know, sheesh! What a name)! It came from her bushy tail. I had Bushy perhaps 21 years ago. I saw her living rough across the street, and couldn't resist. I hadn't had a Coon for years. I brought her home, and discovered the love of my life. She was perfect. For some strange reason she very developed FIV. She may be alive now, for all I know. I gave her away when I moved. She went to a lovely family who sent me endless pictures of her fawning on their furniture. 

So now that Sweety is gone, I have lost my last bit of Bush, and that does make me sad. I worked hard to feed and care for Bushy and her kittens. She actually had three pregnancies. Her children were many varieties of Coon, from Silver Fox to Orange. Her children's children (Sweety's) were a mix of tabby and Maine Coon. I gave them all away except for Sweety. She had Bushy's nose: a tiny, pink, ice cold, wet thing that nuzzled me, kissed me, and delighted me. 

So Sweety is lying in state in my other bedroom. When I came home from work, she was not at the door to greet me with her usual plaintive breathy meows for food. I found her hidden, in a back room, cold and stiff - after an exhaustive search of the house. I "put her on ice" in a bag with frozen water jugs because it was so late at night. 

Today it's so hot out that I don't want to bury her today, but I have to. 

When a cat dies in my house, I do the full ritual: I bathe them, comb, dry them, and bury them in a soft towel in a pretty box. I buy them a can or jar of their favorite food, toys, and a new collar for their journey. 

I know some people just dig a hole, toss the cat in, and cover them up. That doesn't seem right to me. After all, if they were a member of your family, offering love and support most of their lives - wouldn't they deserve a respectful funeral? 

We don't chuck Granny in the ground naked and toss dirt on her just because she got sick. Instead we live and care for her till she dies. We have wakes, religious services, and softly-lined coffins. We buy her a plot. We lower her into the ground slowly. We say words over her. We buy her a  headstone, to mark her burial place for centuries. 

Some may say that I'm wasting money by doing all of this. I know that it's for my own mental health. When I think of Sweety, I'll know she has been cared for in the best way that I could. She will be respected, and given a burial worth less that all the love she gave, but the best I can afford. 

I am halfway through Sweety's cleansing. Her fur is matted in places. I've shampooed and conditioned her, and now it's time to comb and dry her. That process takes hours. When I was younger I could do the whole process in one go, but now I can barely do one step without resting. It hurts too much.

People would say that preparing the dead is disgusting. Why wash a dead cat?! It's gross. It's got poo on it. It pissed on itself. My response to that is: Years ago people did this for their loves ones - women, specifically. They bathed and clothed them, and laid them out. They cooked a held the wake, and sewed them into their shroud. My experience with this is via my Irish heritage. I have seen too many movies with this ritual not to offer it to my pets. I have touched too many cold brows and put my fingers through the hair of my deceased family members. That's normal, and you get used to it. 

In fact, it is my belief that we are too detached from death. The closest thing a kid gets to it is burying the family gerbil, or finding a dead sparrow (and poking it with a stick). Farm folks know death. They see it because they keep larger animals and kill some smaller ones for food. City and suburban folk just don't get it. They see death as a nuisance, something they have to pay for, and something they barely participate in. Their food comes pre-killed, pre-washed, and pre-cooked. Were they thrust into an era before all the niceties we have now, they would have nervous breakdowns, sobbing for their smartphones and hair dryers. Death comes prepackaged these days. 

I'm resting now, trying to piece together my thoughts. At least I've shed some tears as I wrote this. More tears will come later,

when I bury her. For now, I rest, and soon, she will rest. 

RIP SWEETY, LAST OF BUSHY'S CHILDREN, LAST OF THE MAINE COONS.