The slow and unyielding march of time | episode 33
hello hi, a brief programming note: i just got some new subscribers who don’t know me at all, and usually this newsletter is light and funny and focuses on a couple things that happened to me recently and books i’ve read, but this one is a bit different for reasons that will become obvious soon. feel free to skip if it’s too much for any reason! i’ll be back with more fun writing in a few weeks.
content warning: sadness, pet death, the slow and unyielding march of time, mention of sexual assault, extreme earnestness
I didn’t want a pet.
I was in my mid-20s and had all the attitudes that come with being that age. I defined myself with opposition; if my family members were into it, I was not. And my family members were super into pets. My sister had graduated from vet school with a dog and a cat, and I had endured years of listening to her talk about gross animal stuff. (I don’t need to know about cow rectal exams thanks!) As we moved out of the house to go to college, my parents had started replacing us with pugs. My brother was thinking about vet school, and lobbying for one of those parrots that lives for a century. I was living my drunkest life in a studio apartment in Manhattan, working full time, going to school full time, and didn’t have time or space for a pet. Besides, who wanted to pick up poop???
They all conspired to get me one, though; my siblings went to a foster home to get him a pair of kittens, and Dori spotted a teenage black cat with splotches of white on her tummy. The cat had been in foster home for a whole year. Dori saw something in the kitty that made her decide I needed it. She called me and told me she was getting me a cat. I resisted, and I managed to wheedle my way into a sweet deal where she would buy me a robot litter box to help me with the poop problem. My parents agreed to drive her down the next weekend.
In the weekend between the confirmation of receiving a cat and the receipt of the cat, I was sexually assaulted. I was numb, still trying to process what had happened (it took years to process) when my parents showed up with a little carrier with a little furball. She immediately ran under the bed. I was completely unprepared — no toys, no treats. I crumpled up some paper and tied some string around it, and jerked it around a bit. It only took a couple of minutes before she came out and started playing. She let me pet her. My parents were surprised, saying, “She hasn’t let anyone pet her yet!” I named her Sargent Pluck, after a favorite book, The Third Policeman by Flann O’Brien. (I was a very pretentious 20something!!!!)
She spent the first night running around meowing. I think she was looking for the other cats in the foster home, wondering where they’d gone. I cried a little, thinking about how sad she must be. It was the first time I’d cried since the assault. But eventually I locked her in the bathroom because also it’s VERY ANNOYING to have a cat running around your studio apartment meowing. In the morning, she had curled up in the sink. I cried again, and let her out. She did the same freaking thing every night for a week, and then one night she must have figured out that there were no other cats around to hassle her or steal attention, and she jumped up on my bed and fell asleep between my feet. She’s slept on me or beside me almost every night since then.
Anyway. Here were are 14 years later, and I wish I could tell you every story about her, that you all could know how silly and fun and loving and brave and protective of me she was because today I had to say goodbye to her.
It was the right decision — she was diagnosed with a GI-lymphoma two and a half years ago, and battled back to being a healthy, active kitty again, but last month she caught a cold that she’s just never recovered from. She spent the last hour of her life laying on me, purring, while I pet her soft fur. I feel so grateful for all the extra time I’ve had with her, and so thankful that I could afford to end her suffering at home. But still — I’m lying in my bed and it feels empty. She was so small but she took up so much space.
I think back to who I was in my early/mid 20s — someone who didn’t really understand how to love or be loved, who was honestly pretty closed off to the idea that love was something desirable. I was such a different person — meaner, impatient, less careful with other people’s feelings. And I know this is so cheesy — I’m basically describing The Grinch Who Stole Christmas — but Plucky’s big, fierce love made my heart bigger, more open. She deserves every bit of grief I’m feeling right now.
Debris
Okay I am going to tell some Plucky stories.
One time, I made dinner for a guy I was casually dating who brought his big, ill-behaved dog over. It was rainy out, and this dog was, like, jumping up on the couch and getting his muddy feet all over everything like a maniac. Plucky had initially fled to a different part of the apartment, but slowly came back and stalked him across the floor. Finally she was nose to nose with him, just staring directly into his eyes. He broke eye contact, rolled over onto his belly, and quit being such a menace.
She was such a chatty kitty, and the way she talked evolved over the years. She made little baby dinosaur noises when I first got her — lots of “mrrrk?” and “brrrk!” kind of sounds. She developed more full-throated meows as time went on. Whenever I got home from an extended period away, she would run to the door and meow until I picked her up and carried her around the apartment for a bit.
Once, I woke up to hear intense mewling coming from the other room. She was at the window, yowling at a raccoon that was right up next to the window. The raccoon was taunting her, every now and then putting a paw on the glass, and she would go absolutely nuts. She knocked two flowerpots and a bunch of books onto the floor, making a huge mess. But I love how brave she was, how willing she was to protect me from this trash panda that would have absolutely eaten her lunch. (Literally and figuratively.)
She was so protective of me; she was suspicious of anyone who came over when I was home, so much so that she’s often smack them with her paw. But she also was a sweetie bear who loved affection and attention so much — when I went out of town, I’d come back and the friend who had fed her for a few days would say, “We’re best friends now!” and then as soon as I was in the apartment, she’d resume her murderous ways.
(I’ve been reading some but I don’t have the energy to write about books today, so I’ll save them for next time.)
I didn’t want a pet. It’s such a miracle that Plucky found her way to my arrogant and stubborn self, and I’m so happy I got to love and be loved by her.
Thanks so much if you made it to the end. I put my whole heart in this one. If anyone has any good Pluck stories to send to me, please do. I love hearing about how she touched other people’s lives as well.
