Trapeze (or Loss)

My cat died last week.

We put her to sleep because she had been sick for many years, and finally went straight into renal failure.

She was 20 years old.

My parents and I adopted her and her sister when they were kittens. 

I was 5 years old when I named her.

Trapeze.

Because she was lithe af. Small, nimble, quiet.

She was a terrible cat. 

This is her eulogy.

I want to begin by saying that I have been relatively fortunate in regards to the presence (or lack) of loss in my life. So maybe I should just shut up and let someone else do the eulogizing. 

But as Trapeze’s sole surviving sister. I feel obligated.

As mentioned, I have known and cohabitated with this cat for some 20 odd years. If you know me, you might say: oh, I didn’t realize you had a cat. Certainly. I understand.

It’s because I’ve touched this cat two times in my life.

She was traumatized at birth, without a doubt. And then bullied into seclusion by her unhinged sister Acrobat (since RIP’d). We only realized this upon Acrobat’s death several years back. That’s when she finally dared to venture from the safety of the hall closet and became a visible presence in my home. 

Even then, it was only my mother who was given the privilege of cuddles and purrs. 

We weren’t close. Is what I’m saying.

It’s still sad to hug your dead cat.

Somehow it’s even sadder when it’s the third time you’ve touched her in 20 years. 

—

Even with minimal exposure to loss, I recognize its paradox. 

Loss often brings unexpected gain. Endings, naturally, bring a new beginning. 

Yet while we may know it is time for something once good to end… that doesn’t make the ending any less trying. 

I’ve seen Moulin Rouge a dozen times. That doesn’t make it any less tragic. Or, to reach a wider audience, I offer: we all know how the story of Titanic ends. Bad.

It ends badly.

That doesn’t keep us from debating (over a century later, mind you) if Jack could’ve fit on the godforsaken door or whatever the hell.

It doesn’t keep us from watching anyway. 

We may know something bad — dare I say? toxic — has reached its end. And we’re glad. We’re relieved. But still. Change is hard.

I think (similarly to birthday-induced reflection), the end of anything at all makes us look. Forces us awake. Sensitizes us to the present fleeting moment.

Oh, right. Everything is temporary.

Everything.

—

The death of Trapeze is not sad for me in the way it might be for another cat owner. It was her time — far past it, probably — and I am glad she is no longer in pain. 

But this particular ending does make me sad in another way. And that is via its association with my childhood. Look, Maggie: there just went one more thing that made this house your home. 

I’m losing my sense of home. Have been for the entire year. Slowly, bit by bit. But this has largely been on my own terms. One might even say I’m actively releasing.

And by doing so I’ve gained a lot. New homes. New friends. New passions and ideas.

That doesn’t keep me from missing what is lost. 

It can be both. 

ONWARDS,

Mag