Saturday, January 24th, 2009
You don’t understand. PJ was a Titan. PJ stared down the barrel of a gun and never flinched. He rescued children from burning vehicles and led entire caravans of refugees to safety. PJ questioned authority and incited revolutions. PJ swallowed violence and poverty and coughed up sparklers and ragtime music. PJ knew tricks, and performed them when he felt like it. He was devilishly handsome. He played the piano. PJ would purr moments before you would even touch him, he loved you that much. He loved me. He was a Yankee cat, betrayed by Southern hospitality. He would greet you every single time you stepped through the front-door, it was the one sure thing.
So today was the first day in 18 years that PJ didn’t greet me when I came home. It’s strange. It’s different, mourning a pet that you grew up with when you no longer lived with them full-time. You’ve already grown accustomed to long chunks of time without them, and then one day those long chunks of time become forever. (Will he visit me in my dreams the way his mother does?) PJ, you were a better cat than I am a human, and that’s not really too surprising, because you were a very, very good cat. I will miss you.
Saturday, November 29th, 2008
Last night we came as close as we’ve ever come to cuddling. I slept on my stomach, and he slept curled up in a ball on the backs of my knees.
Yes, it’s blog-worthy.
Sunday, November 9th, 2008
My cat PJ was born dead, but he survived. A few years later some vigilante redneck neighbor shot him in the head, for trespassing. The pellet went in through his ear and split into two pieces, which remain there to this day. PJ, once again, survived. There may be some truth to this nine-lives mythology. He is now 18 years old. He is arthritic, and his kidneys are failing, and he has shrunk down to a fraction of his weight in healthier days, but he is surviving. Every time I come home, PJ makes the effort to hobble downstairs for some petting. Yesterday he followed me around for the better part of the day. I bent down and gave him a good scratching behind the ear and said, “PJ, you have a strong will to live.” It’s strange how animals have this while humans, sometimes, do not. If survival is the name of the game, it wasn’t very Darwinian of us humans to evolve a self-destruct button. PJ could teach us a thing or two. Meanwhile, animal euthanasia, while humane, is still incredibly sad. For PJ in particular it would seem like an insult, after he’s made it this long. I need my pets to live forever.