Freedom and loss - remembering a beloved furry friend

Five days ago I lost my beloved companion and Zen master of almost 13 years. He came into my life as a kitten when he was eight weeks old, and I fell in love with him instantly. On Tuesday I took him in to get an abscessed tooth extracted, and shortly after waking up from the anesthetic, when he seemed to be recovering well, he collapsed and never woke up again.

It was a devastating loss, all the more so for being so utterly unexpected - he'd been in good health, was energetic and friendly and playful, his blood work results right before the surgery were excellent ... the vet thinks it might have been an undetected heart condition, and I decided to accept that rather than subject his little body to the insult of a post-mortem. Whatever something like that might find, it wouldn't bring him back. My heart is broken, and it breaks again each day when I awake, when I come home and he's not there, when I look out the glass patio door to where he would sit, patiently waiting or impatiently meowing to be let in, when I go to bed, and a million times throughout the day in all kinds of settings when I think of him, or something reminds me of him, or I simply feel the vast hole in my heart.

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In two weeks it will be Passover, when Jews the world over remember the exodus from slavery in Egypt. For the first Seder I'm going to, I've been asked to bring something that symbolizes freedom to me. I've been thinking about what freedom means to me given this recent loss ...

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Over the years, I occasionally resented the hassle of looking after a pet, despite how much I loved the little guy. It was harder to make spontaneous plans as I'd have to make arrangements for someone to come and feed him, let him in and out, and if I was gone for longer, to stay with him; I'd have to look for housesitters, entrust my home to strangers and hope they were as reliable and trustworthy as they appeared (all were fantastic, but the angst was always there when I had to find someone new), and it was hard to get a good night's sleep with a cold nose and loud purrs in my face early every morning, and with the back pain brought on by the weight of his little body lying on my lap all night.

In the last year or two I'd also starting letting my mind wander to sometime in the unknown future or to a parallel present, where I'd have all kinds of mundane freedoms, and occasionally thinking of other pets I might consider after he was gone - I'd sometimes thought of getting another kitten, but thought he'd feel rejected (he might not have - another companion might have brought him joy for all I know). And I'd been thinking that he was getting older, and in another two or three or four years, I'd be having to make a tough decision on his behalf.

I loved him like crazy. He had the most incredible personality - he was smart, curious, sweet, gentle, playful, loving, and friendly - even people who didn't care much for cats found a soft spot for him. He taught me his own version of hide-and-seek where he'd find a hiding spot, meow to me to come find him, I'd walk around the apartment calling for him, and eventually his loud purring would give him away and he'd bounce out of whichever new hiding spot he'd found. The bathtub and behind the bathroom door were two of his favourite hiding spots. He would go on crazed gallops through the apartment that would end in a little winded huff. He figured out how to open cupboard doors, and would open them and let them slam shut just for fun - or sometimes, to go into the cupboard to explore. He figured out how to open bifold doors; he didn't like closed doors, so he made sure the bifolds were always open despite my best efforts. And the squeak of the doors opening at night would wake me - but I never lubricated the hinges. Now I don't think I ever will, as the sound will remind me of him.

He was never vindictive - after a visit to the vet, the most he'd do is go sit under the bed for a few minutes - a spot where he felt safe, and I knew to leave him be. After five or ten minutes, he'd come out, rub up against my leg, climb on my lap, and settle in for a purr and a cuddle. He never lashed out at me in anger. I was gentle with him, and he was gentle with me.

I think now of the times I took him for granted, the times I resented the responsibility of caring for him, the times I shooed him away when he wanted to play or wanted me to go with him to find whatever invisible-to-me thing he'd found in the bathroom or bedroom or hallway or wherever, the times I got annoyed at him waking me with a loud purr and a paw to my cheek ... and realize that I got the freedom from those minor annoyances, and in exchange, lost my most beloved companion forever.

I also remember the times he was hurt and needed my care more than ever. I took time off work, spent sleepless nights at the animal emergency hospital, nursed and dressed his wounds, gave him pain medications and antibiotics, guarded our home from the aggressive neighbouring cat who kept attacking him (and broke the tooth that eventually abscessed) ... and those times were when my love for him exploded, when my life turned to making sure he was safe and could heal. He lived it all with great equanimity, and after his wounds healed was back to his former friendly, loving self in no time. I gave up my freedom willingly and without question or resentment at those times, and would do so again in a heartbeat. And I would have done it again had he survived this last ordeal.

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I haven't suffered the loss of of a parent, a spouse, a child. My loss is minor in comparison - but he was my family nonetheless, and I loved him, and the pain is real and overwhelming.

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Freedom is a mixed blessing, and sometimes a curse.

I have spent much of my adult life experiencing the freedom of not being bound by a serious relationship or by the responsibility of children ... and I know full well the loneliness and lack of meaning that freedom can bring. My furry friend anchored me, taught me how to relate to and communicate with another being in ways beyond words, how to be present in the moment and take in whatever life was offering at that moment, how love can be simple and wordless. I would trade my current freedom in a heartbeat to have him back.

Rest forever in peace, my little friend.