I stayed up late last night, finally giving up to sleep around three this morning. When I went to bed, my old man cat was still alive, but just barely. His breathing was shallow, and when he tried to meow, he could only whisper. I was certain when I woke at seven thirty that he was gone. When I went downstairs to let the dogs out, I was proven correct. Somehow, knowing for years that he was old and frail, and knowing for weeks that he was evaporating before my eyes, the final eighteen hours with him was a sucker punch to the gut. Thankfully, my mother helped talk me through a plan last night, so I didn't panic and run in circles trying to decide how to handle the vehicle that Torden no longer inhabited. I wasted no time going outside in the warm, muggy morning, to dig before it got too hot. It took an hour of hard, sweaty work, but I made a nice spot for him, under a rose of Sharon that is already presenting a single white bud. And now, the relative silence in my house squeezes my heart in waves of pain, over and over and over. There are religions that demand immediate burials of their faithful, and today I see great logic in that. If I had not taken care of it first thing this morning, before the shock wore off, I would still be trying to talk myself into doing it now. I was useless all day, sitting like a lump on the couch, crying every time I heard the echo of his sounds that haunt this house already. It takes my breath away how badly it hurts.
As I alluded yesterday, I have blogged about Torden's history, of his concussion that led to seizures when he was a kitten, and his golden years of dementia and deafness. Somewhere in the last year, I think I have explained his philosophy, which comes down to one word: Ring. Since he was very young, he had nystagmus, where his pupils shook left and right when he tried to focus on objects. We always assumed he couldn't see very well. But no matter where he was, what he was doing, if you held up the plastic ring that comes off the cap of a milk jug, he would attack it. He could always see a ring. He hoarded them. Stashed them under furniture and appliances. Played fetch with them, howling when he wanted his daddy to play every morning, throwing them into the shower so he could dive in the tub after them. The kids decided that the lesson he wanted us to learn was that the meaning of the universe is ring. At times, when I'm reading about philosophy, history, cosmology, or experimental physics, little details drift past that make me think he was really on to something. I will have to ask my children to help me form that philosophy into readable words. As a final tribute to Torden's lifelong obsession, I put one ring on his chest, and a second on top of his grave. I need to think of a way to preserve the one on top, as a marker.
I stayed in my muddy jeans most of the day, sitting on the couch, feeling miserable. At some point I took a nap, to make the day pass faster. It wasn't until almost seven that I finally showered and made myself leave the house. I went to the grocery store because I had to. I wore a casual dress, but left my face scrubbed bare. I avoided mirrors today, but I'm sure I looked like I went a few rounds with Apollo Creed. I don't think I was able to stand up straight. I felt like my chest was collapsing, and each step thudded through me. With great effort, I managed to hold it together until I was pushing the cart to the corral in the parking lot. After that, my control was gone.
I know in a few days, I will have to be completely back to normal grownup life. But today, I am wallowing in the rubble of my broken heart. Tributes to Torden have come in from around the world. If he had been a human, he would have been a politician or a rock star, winning people over with his cult of personality. He was a singular character. He was Ring.
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