T w e n t y S i d e d
Around 6 or 7 years ago my wife (then girlfriend) and I moved into a small apartment in Baltimore so that she could finish school. Part of that move meant bringing along her orange cat, Helo, to live with us. Now, I had lived with her and Helo at her parents’ place prior to this but I didn’t get to spend much time around Helo because he spent most of his time around his grandpa and apparently didn’t feel the need to get to know me. But now he had no choice.
The first week after we brought him into the apartment he spent the entire day under the bed. He’d pop out at night when he thought nobody was watching to get food, water, and to use the litter box. As far as he was concerned he was bunkered down in enemy territory requisitioning supplies and using the easiest spot in the area to dig a latrine during gaps in the enemy’s nighttime surveillance. Slowly but surely, however, he started venturing out to scout out the place. I gave him space and let him become comfortable on his own time table, but I was really looking forward to finally winning him over and getting some affection from the guy. Eventually he popped up next to me on the couch and nuzzled into my arm while I was playing something on my PlayStation. So I paused my game and gave him as much affection as he would let me before he trotted off.
After a few weeks he was spending plenty of time lounging around me on the couch. Adjacent, but leaving some space. I really loved it. I felt pretty isolated in that apartment. I was alone most of the day while my girlfriend was in school. I couldn’t work or go to school myself. I didn’t have friends in the area. I needed his companionship. And whether he knew it or not, he was very good at being there when I needed him. But there was one barrier that kept keeping him from being truly comfortable with me. My mouth.
I, for lack of a better term, am obnoxiously loud. There are various factors as to why that is but the truth of it is that I have a very hard time controlling my volume. So moving into an apartment as a League of Legends and Rainbow Six Siege player was a dangerous prospect as it is. Luckily, the building we moved into had thick concrete walls and floors that seemed to be made of unobtanium. That didn’t make Helo any more comfortable. So when nighttime came around and I booted up whatever it was I wanted to yell at that night, he typically hid away. At least at first. Over time, likely because I was also all HE had, he grew to understand that I was loud, not dangerous. And with that he started joining me in my gaming sessions in a way.
If I was grinding solo queue in League or desperately, pathetically trying to improve my aim and flicking skills in Siege I had Helo in my lap to keep myself from blowing up as hard. I had a friend to vent to and cuddle up with when I get annihilated and feel helpless and furious. I could seethe and scream at the TV when dying to Sword Saint Isshin over and over for a week (true story) in Sekiro then turn to my buddy and pet him. It centered me. He was my little buddy. I was his dad.
Things have changed over the years. He had spent less time around me since we moved back to my hometown into a bigger home. Eventually he moved into our dear friends’ house because they were able to take care of him in his older age far better than we were able to, and we spend all our time over there anyway. Pretty much every time I went over to their place he would peak his head out and greet me or even walk over and demand attention. Nothing changed how much we loved each other.
Helo passed away yesterday. It was his time. He was old and he led a very good, happy life. Spoiled rotten every single day of it. Helo was my friend. He helped center me when I didn’t know how badly I needed it. He was an unwanted alarm clock at 4:30 every morning. He gave me immense love and affection in exchange for nothing but food, water, and latrine duty. He gave us fabulous excuses to buy new glasses and dishes when he obliterated them. He was the best. He was a bastard. He was our little man.
In lieu of the typical, “Sorry for your loss,” comments and whatnot please just hug your pets. I appreciate your care but those sentiments aren’t what I need right now. I just wanted to share a bit of my story with one of my best friends now that he’s moved on. So whether it’s a St. Bernard, a snake, or a fish, hug your pet. Don’t fight me on this. I demand it.
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I’m so sorry you had to experience that. I lost my nearly-twenty-year-old doggo about a year ago. I happened to realize just the other day one of my favorite songs…I listened to it over and over for comfort on the day. I haven’t listened to it since.
I’m glad he was comfortable and well-loved!
As per your instructions, I sought out my two cats to give them extra cuddles. One happily obliged and is purring away atop my desk right now. The other (a mischievous void cat aptly named after the Norse God of Trickery) gave me a WTF look and parkoured up the shelves to his usual perch and stared suspiciously at me. This is normal for him though; Loki typically only likes to be petted when he is in one of a few very specific resting spots.
A long time ago, I noticed that my cat was getting old. She was getting scrawny, and would whine more, and was more inactive than ever. It made me sad, thinking she didn’t have long left.
Seven years later she’d start whining and I’d be like oh hey kitty are you dead yet or what
Somehow, that weird little stray that wandered onto our driveway one day when I was a kid survived to the age of twenty two. (or so. We aren’t sure how old she actually was. When she found us she was still young, but no longer a kitten, so hard to say exactly.)
I had a VERY long time to get acclimatized to the idea of her dying, and now years later I still regret not being nicer to her. I wish I’d known before that hiding behavior meant she was in pain. I wish I’d known that the whining was probably dementia and she didn’t know where she was. I don’t think I’ll ever stop having dreams where she’s still meandering around the house, and when I pick her up I feel sad like I know she’ll be gone again soon, even if I don’t know why, because it’s a dream.
Be nice to your cat, they’re gonna die.
Oh, the tough bastard, yeah. We got one of those, when I was 6yo. His name was Hugo and he was found by my mom’s boss, bleeding out in a field with several knife wounds to the throat and back. Mom’s boss loved cats and took him to the vet, costing him hundreds in vet bills. Since Mom’s boss already had several cats, my mom volunteered to care for him. Hugo was estimated to be about 3yo and lived happily (and grumply) for another 18 years with my parents.
I’ll hug my mom’s pets regardless – one of which I had started taking care of, but it ended up with her. Still, one more reason to do so next time I can