As many of you know, I lost my sweet Gizmo last November. For more than half my life, that tubby little gray cat has been my baby. Now he’s gone and I must make peace with it and move onward. That’s the key message in Jon Katz’s book “Going Home,” which I listened to on audio while curled up in the fetal position next to my dying cat on Thanksgiving morning.
I couldn’t get through the book because the very notion of moving on was unfathomable. I’ll carry on, but I will never move away from this precious gift that came into my life when I needed it the most. Gizzy wasn’t just a cat I brought home and kept alive for nearly two decades. He was my little soul mate. The moment I brought him home, he curled his little malnourished body in the crook of my neck and purred.
I was mom and he was home. As it happens, I also found my home in Gizmo.
I’m having a hard time writing this because Gizzy’s story of survival is also my own. When I see those paw-shaped bumper stickers with the words “Who rescued who?” I’m reminded of how Gizzy saved me from myself during what I call the dark days. Like Gizzy, I was abandoned by my mother and left in a state of limbo. I wasn’t in a good place, and let’s just leave it at that. But everything changed when I swooped baby Gizmo off the scummy streets of El Cajon.
My dad didn’t think the scrawny little kitten would last more than a week, but I had faith that the little guy would pull through. Sure enough, Gizzy was a fighter. As it turned out, so was I.
As the years progressed at warp speed, I watched him grow into a happy little crunchy-obsessed butterball. During his senior years he developed some old man ailments, but he kept fighting and surprising the vet along the way. I remember telling the vet, “He’s very important to me,” and wincing at how generic that sounded. How can I put in words how much this cat means to me? How can I even think of Gizzy being gone for good? Those thoughts swam through my head, giving me a sense of vertigo. Even now, I get that loopy “I’M GOING TO FALL!” feeling when I realize he’s no longer on this earth.
More years went by and I kept sweeping that thought under the rug. Why? Because we have to enjoy our animals while we have them. They show us how to live in the present and to enjoy what we have right now at this very moment. Think about it. How can we enjoy a perfectly good Sunday while dreading the Monday lurking around the corner? How can we enjoy the holidays knowing dreary January would soon rear its ugly head?
Living in the present. That’s a lesson our animals teach us, if you listen to them. Another lesson Gizzy taught me was the power of resilience. Even until the bitter end, Jarred and I didn’t give up hope because he had a way of bouncing back from a serious illness. So we did everything we could to give him his second wind. Hundreds of dollars later, we realized there was no second wind. It was his time.
It was also my time to let go…but not entirely. I think of him every day. Sometimes I’ll laugh at the memory of him kicking himself under the chin with his big ol’ bunny feet, or I’ll make space on my pillow at night expecting Gizzy to hog it with his bulky body. I can almost feel him with me when I sit outside and stare at his favorite spot under the tree. Sometimes I just sit out there and sing my silly Gizzy songs. What can I say? I’m a crazy cat lady.
His favorite little ditty went like this
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy because you’re gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.
I sang that song, well attempted to anyway, when he peacefully sailed across the rainbow bridge. I truly hope the rainbow bridge exists and that I will get to cross it on my final journey and be with him again. Until then, I will carry on and continue doing the things I love just as my sweet boy–the love of my life–did until the end.