Grief, Loss, Hope and Dave

I lost my cat this week.

Clark and Dave.

And, quite frankly, I'm feeling pretty stupid about it. Because I've blown up people's Facebook feeds with pleas and posters and pictures. And I know there's a segment of people who are looking at it and saying, "OMG woman, it is a cat — get the hell over it." And then there's the other side of people, who seem to want me almost paralyzed with devastation, and text or message me daily to see if I'm OK.

I'm willing to have a healthy amount of perspective here: I lost my cat. Yes, a cat I have had for 12 years and will miss insanely. But I don't have a fatal illness. We're going to be OK.

I have faced worse crisis. Most of them around Thanksgiving — which is why I hold my breath from Nov. 1-30 and just try not to get hit by whatever bus is coming.

Splat.

This is also challenging all of my religious bits. I know that Jesus knows where Dave is — be it locked up somewhere, hurt or dead. Jesus knows. Should Dave still be alive, Jesus can help him get home.

And while I pray that prayer ("Jesus, please bring Dave home healthy"), I also know that Dave is, at minimum, 14 years old (he's a shelter kitty, so age indeterminate). He's old. He barely has any top teeth. He's been drinking a ton of water lately and I've been a little worried about him. I've also been considering the inevitability of his death.

Dave may not be coming home.

Does that mean that Jesus doesn't care about Dave, or me, or how horrible it is going to be to keep telling Clark that Dave is gone? No. It means that life is natural, and cats grow old. And cats die. And sometimes they go off into the woods to do it.

And life, growth, death and grief are a part of that process.

Does knowing that Dave may be gone forever make me a less faithful Christian — because I'm not believing that Jesus will bring him back?

No. God is not a genie in a bottle. Can He interfere in the natural process of life, death, etc.? Yes, He can, to His glory. And if He wants to do that and have Dave show up on the front porch this evening, I'll be grateful.

But it won't change the fact that my cat is 14, and will some day die. Perhaps in a more agonizing and painful for all involved way than going out one night and not coming back.

I miss Dave. If I think too hard on it, I become a little overwhelmed. He's been there for me through terrible break ups, the death of family, starting new lives in new towns and new states. He's moved with me countless times. He put up with the introduction of TJ into our life, and then the introduction of Clark. He has loved me, and loved TJ, and loved Clark.

He sometimes is an obnoxious, furry little butthole. He whines a lot in the middle of the night. He sometimes will bite people on the head. He begs to be fed all day, every day.

And he also slept under the covers with me when it got cold at night — my purring little heater. He liked to cuddle. He would nibble on my arm in a little, painful, "I love you." Or possibly, "Please move this appendage."

I am going to miss Dave. Probably for a while. And while I still hope that perhaps he'll come back, I also hope that he found a nice warm place to find his end. And maybe up in Kitty Heaven, he got to be reunited with all of his pulled teeth.