Everyone’s Buddy

A domestic long-haired tabby cat
Chubby Huggs, Spring 2020

Chubby Huggs came into our life in 2006 as a full-grown adult. A stray who nevertheless weighed in at nineteen pounds, he loved two things: (1) food and (2) everyone.

He was everybody’s friend. Pest control technicians, electricians, plumbers, painters, anyone who came to the house got mugged for attention. We often joked that if burglars broke in while we were gone, they would still be there when we got back because it was impossible not to pet the little guy, and he could never get–or give–enough love. Even people who didn’t like cats thought Chubby Huggs was something special.

He eventually slimmed down due to the combination of a healthy diet and his personal trainer–our other cat, PK, who was none too fond of the interloper. She chased his furry little butt around every chance she got. They had a love-hate relationship for years but eventually he won even her over.

When Carolyn had to travel on business, he would sit in her place on the sofa as if waiting for her. When she was home, her lap was his favorite place to be.

He hated one thing: small objects on the coffee table. Pens, coins, keys–he felt that the proper place for these things was on the floor. He allowed vases of flowers (because he could eat them) and glasses of water (which he believed were obviously there for him). Anything else was fair game to be swatted until it dropped.

Chubby Huggs died this morning. He had bladder cancer and last night it became clear that he didn’t have any fight left in him. Carolyn slept out in the living room to be with him. I couldn’t bear it and went to bed. She woke me at 4:30 to tell me he was gone. I feel so guilty for not being there.

Goodbye, little pal. I’m sorry. I’ll miss you.

On Grief

You wake up in the morning and you have a minute, maybe two, of ignorance. Then the memory comes. Data only at first, devoid of sentiment. You examine that data, emotionless. Clinical. It is a thing that happened. You remember feeling sorrow, but you do not feel sorrow. It is not part of you. You tell yourself that you’ll be okay. That there are no more tears to shed. 

Then it hits you, grief boiling out of you like vomit, bursting forth through clenched teeth. It shakes you. Strength leaves your legs. Your lungs turn to stone. You feel as though someone has seized you by the hair and plunged your head into water. It holds you as you struggle to breathe.

It passes. For a moment, then for a few, then for a few minutes. You breathe into the bottom of your lungs. A moment of clarity. You remind yourself that it cannot, will not last forever. And you think, I’m okay. I’ll be okay. Maybe not today, but–

It hits you again.

As if to punish you for thinking you could survive. You feel as if someone has plunged your head under water, then let you up long enough only to gasp for a single breath before pushing you back under. Over and over.