Goodbye, Odin

There is a gaping stripy-swirly cat-sized hole in my heart right now.  My Odin passed away this week.  He'd been at the vet now for several weeks, and previously, too, he had another longer stint in the vet a couple months ago.  After that one, though, he was home and had been doing better, gaining weight back ounce by ounce getting back into his normal, playful vibe.  This boy loved everybody, once he figured out you were not likely to eat him.  I can't even count the number of people he's walk on, trying to get as many pats as possible during a book club meeting or dinner gathering at our house.  

Sadly, his progression wasn't sufficient that we thought he'd be strong enough for the unplanned-for evacuation flight; after a long talk with the vet, we decided it would be entirely too long and too stressful of a trip for his not-yet-fully-recovered system, so we went with what felt like the least worst option and left him in the house with his furry sister, and the housekeeper who would take her best care of him. 

Turns out, stress and ulcers don't heal as quickly as we hope they can.  I know he wasn't in pain; the vet assured us of that much, but that was primarily only because he was one 24/7 morphine.  We were trying to get back to him, but this darn war in the Middle East is making that impossible.  A lot of my grief is focused on not being able to spend his last few weeks with him.  We knew it was coming but still ... there are no words to the shock I felt when the vet called and said "it happened."

Every pet owner thinks their fur baby is the most beautiful.  Arguably, Odin was very striking.  Swirly whirls on his sides, stripes on his head, back and long tail, and pale with splotches on his belly, he was a beauty.  Muscly without being beefy, and silent, even with a bell on.  His furry sister can’t even think without making a jingle, but Odin easily snuck around.  

Arch nemesis included luggage of any kind, but he never met a box he didn’t want to immediately jump into.  Unlike his furry sister whose greatest love is a pile of freshly laundered sheets, Odin’s favorite spots randomly changed and often he’d forget about a past favorite until you put him in it again and then it would again become The Best Place Ever … until he forgot again.  

We often questioned the mightiness of his noggin.  I think he just really appreciated living in the moment, spending time near his favorite people and wandering around the house, in search of some sort of adventure…. Unless the lure of a nap beckoned and then, of course, he’d acquiesce.  

Oh my goodness, I miss him.

Grief is hard, no matter who you lose, and with a beloved pet, it feels even more twisted and angry because there was until recently this source of unconditional love, of quiet support... and now that support is not there.  This cat, my goodness, he was just such a good cat.  He never called me out, never yelled at me, never made me feel like I wasn't doing enough.  He was just my furry companion.  We (family) used to argue who he loved best; to him all people were sources of affection and possible play.  

He kept me company, quietly, quirky little interactions like stealing parsley or salad while "helping" me cook.  

Or lying down right on my keyboard when he felt like it was time for some attention.  

His little purry face staring at me from his window seat next to my desk.  

He let me pet his belly forward and backward, leaving a mess of stripey swrily fur, but not getting huffy about it like most cats might.  

He didn't especially like to be held, but still, would sit patiently through his mani-pedi (read: nail trim), a little blob of patience, never once trying to bite or fuss.  

He played like he couldn't help himself: he was absolutely compelled to throw the grape stem around, or "catch the worm" in the wicker furniture, or fling himself and the plastic bit from the holiday tree about the room.  

He embodied curiosity and genuine affection.  

When in doubt, lie on your back. Or hang off your pillow. Or

He rarely made noise; whenever he would hiss (always while playing the aforementioned worm-catching game) he'd get frustrated and the smallest little hiss and we'd end up laughing into his furry little face.

There wasn't a cantaloupe he didn't love.  Tuna he would turn his nose up at but melon?  Best.thing.ever.

He loved to play with crispy salad and parsley.  He would "hunt" it, and drag a stem or three down to the floor, and then proceed to "kill" it.  He did not care for cilantro; it was too floppy to toss around the room.

When we brought the holiday tree out, the look of seeing a long-lost friend would come over his face as he slowly walked to the tree, and snuggle into it ... even if it wasn't yet assembled.

We had to hide all rubber bands because he could not help himself, and would gobble them up.  It was as though he had some sort of rubber band radar.  More than one emergency vet trip taught us that no rubber bands were allowed in the house ever.  

I am not an especially religious person, but much like my beloved dog from college, Cecil (aka the best dog ever), Odin was meant to be my little fur partner.  It was as though he just understood what I needed and when, and me him.  We were like pieces of the same puzzle.  Now that puzzle is forever lost.  I shouldn't attach so much affection to an animal.  But when an animal is as perfect as this little friend was, well, one cannot help themselves.

I'll miss you forever, Odin.  I hope you found the endless supply of cantaloupe and holiday tree bits to enjoy when not lazing in your sunny window seat.  Find Cecil and you'll have yourself a great friend.