The pieces of our heart we leave behind
It’s taken me a long time to write this. I keep not being ready. And really, at this point, my blog is just for me – my non-existent update schedule and impenetrable writing style ensure that I’m pouring this out alone. But maybe you’ve found this by accident. If so, I guess this is a secret, from me to you.
I don’t form relationships well, or easily. I have problems expressing my feelings – I’ve always held everything all in. It makes it hard to be with me, I imagine. I’ve always tried to make people understand the depth of my feelings, but just telling someone how you feel isn’t enough, when they can’t see your emotions on your face, and in your gestures. Which made it all the more surprising that Shimi picked me.
She was so small when we first got her – tiny enough to fit in one of my hands, with a thin, ratty tail and a squinty eye from kittenhood sickness. She has hard to love, too – among her brothers and sisters, she was the one least interested in being friends or cuddling; all she ever cared about was exploring and fighting. But we picked her anyway. When we brought her home she was a typical terror; whole days would pass where you’d barely see her. She had other agendas than we did, and with her size, the apartment was on such an enormous scale that she could hide away forever, if she wanted.
She moved straight into a thick-necked, aggressive teenage phase, where she openly hated being touched, fought constantly with Chunk, and tore holes into (and crawled into!) the underside of our mattress, forcing long detente discussions with her as we attempted to extricate her. Heather openly discussed the idea of setting her back out for adoption – she clearly wasn’t attached to us. And I even felt the same way, sometimes. But I was starting to feel the tidal pull of that which didn’t want to be loved – like me, I knew Shimi “lived a rich inner life”; she didn’t give a shit what others thought and was living the way she wanted.
When we moved, Shimi moved with us. And she began to grow, too – a little less stand-offish, a little more interested in us. When we’d leave rooms, she’d follow silently behind, never relaxing until we settled in for good. When she’d lose sight of both of us, she’s start asking “questions” – inquisitive meows that she’d repeat until someone called for her, and then she’d dash to follow your voice, often meowing again in satisfaction when she’d locate us. We’d hold whole conversations, where she responded to every question with interested rebuttals, and we’d laugh helplessly. In the mornings, she’d wake me up before my alarm to get me moving, and she’d wait until I stepped out of the shower and luxuriously stretch up to touch my shoulders in a hug.
For the first time, I had a pet who was attached to me – while I’d play on the computer, she’d climb in my lap and purr contentedly, for hours. She curled up for naps next to my head as we’d watch movies, and fit herself into the small of my back as I slept at night. She was immortal – among our respiration-challenged pug and our exotically ailed Chunk, she seemed invulnerable to anything. Until she wasn’t anymore.
It was easy to tell she wasn’t feeling right. I picked her up and set her down one time that day, and instead of standing, she collapsed right to a laying position. We had to retrieve her with difficulty from under our bed later, and brought her to the emergency vet. After aggressive treatment she had rebounded, but when we came to see her the next evening, just to tell her goodnight, they told us we would be saying goodbye instead.
It’s amazing how something so small could take up so much room – for weeks there were so many empty spaces in our house that it didn’t feel like our home anymore. And of course, all you can think of is the things you should have done – how I should have seen her acting differently sooner – all the times I impatiently pushed her from my lap because I was too busy – all the times I shut her out of our bedroom so she wouldn’t wake me so early in the morning. Every day I come out of our room and look at the spot at the end of the hall where she would sleep, waiting all night with her eyes on our door, to be the first to greet me, stretching her paws to the top of the pet gate and meowing good morning.
Sashimi Voorhees, my special girl
