Remember this

Remember this.

Remember how, the first time you held her, she settled right into your arms, looked up into your eyes, and purred.

Remember how it was Domino who wanted to be friends with the new cat, but she hissed and fought, until the day they called a truce and you found them on the couch, lying facing each other, nose to nose.

Remember the things she taught him: how to use the scratching post (not just something to lean against), how to hurl one’s entire tiny body at the bedroom door to open it (not that pathetic scratching and whining). Remember what he taught her: the cat version of ippon kumite, lunge for his neck, get batted down, get back up and try again. Always get back up and try again.

Remember the time you came home to find him watching TV, and her trapped in your bedroom with the door closed. You will never know the story behind that moment.

Remember how all your houseplants died after she came to live with you. You will never know if that was just a coincidence, though you have your doubts.

Remember how frightened you were the first time you saw her jump to the top of a bookshelf. And then how later her jumping abilities became an exasperation, a curse, as she discovered she could get up into the apartment’s suspended ceiling and meow down to you through a grate. Demon, hellspawn, two years of torture until you moved into a house.

Remember the Butter Danish Incident.

Remember how much she loved the sun, eyes closed in bliss as she held her face towards it. Sometimes you saw her follow a sunbeam across a room: settle into the beam, feel its warmth, move when it moved, and settle again.

Remember how she and Domino took shifts watching over you as you recovered from having your wisdom tooth removed.

Remember her after-meal exercises: running from the front of the house to the back, the back of the house to the front, the way you laughed when you could hear the Doppler effect of her footfalls when you were sitting in the basement.

Remember how she scammed you for pizza on a day the two of you were home by yourselves. You called her a bad cat, but couldn’t stop laughing, and felt so much pride at her cleverness.

Remember how she wouldn’t take a treat from your hand; it had to be thrown, so she could chase it and feel the thrill of the successful hunt.

Remember the time she slashed her foot open on a heating vent and never said a word about it. Her bloody footprint was the only evidence you ever had to prove your suspicion that she’d been eating out of Domino’s dish. Every time you see the new wooden vent covers you remember that day and smile.

Remember how she never played with her Crinkle Sac… but that she did sit on it and shift her weight to express her displeasure in crinkles rather than meows.

Remember how it took eleven years before she allowed your mother to pet her.

Remember how she circled your ankles whenever you went to the fridge, even when there was still food in her dish. Especially if there was still food in the dish! Whatever you were getting had to be better than the stuff you had already given her.

Remember that her last Christmas gift to you was to settle herself in under your arm, purring, until you woke up to see her beautiful face.

Remember the tetanus shot you got the day she fought so hard against taking her pill. Those two tiny scars on your index finger remind you of her will and determination, and you pray they will never fade.

Remember how she insisted on going up and down the stairs, even in the last week, no matter how many times she fell to the bottom.

Remember your last night with her, how she stayed beside you, silent and motionless. How you woke up stiff from staying immobile the whole night, making sure your arm was tight around her, making sure you didn’t roll and crush her. Making sure she knew you were there.

Remember the trust in her eyes when you bundled her into a blanket for the final walk out the front door. The trust, and also the tiredness, the exhaustion, letting you know you were doing the right thing.

Remember how she looked so beautiful, and even more Siamese, after that last shot took effect. Remember how her ear settled into a perfect, sharp, luminous triangle, so striking that you said to yourself, Remember This.

Remember this grief. Let your heart open to the full depth and breadth of it. A grief like this is a gift, even though it is so painful, and you wish you could find a way to numb it. Of all the gifts she has given you, this grief may be the most important: it shows that you have loved. It shows you that you can still love.

Remember this.

 

for Jazz Pie Bayley, February 1996 to March 8, 2018

 

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