Leaving Tony

In the beginning of this moving situation I'm already bogged down. I thought I was going to start out strong, and hoped I'd have some kind of momentum to carry me through, but it's harder getting started than I thought.

Especially when it seems our plans for the move change on a weekly basis. But that's another story for another day.

To take a break from the attempts at organizing and to get rid of old musty, bat-crap-covered (yes, you heard me) boxes from the attic, I thought a good old burning in the firepit was in order. Fun for Evan, and fresh air for the both of us. (Yes, we avoided the bat-shit smoke.) It was all a relaxing enjoyable time until I saw the stones marking Tony's final resting place.

It might be a silly thing, but Tony was my child before Evan. He was Chloe's "big brother", my snuggler, my companion, my comfort. He knew whenever I was sick and hovered like a worried mother. He was congenial company for all who knew him. He sat smugly and purred at those who quite obviously adored him. And there were many of those.

For the few who knew him who, after some time in his presence, would remark that Tony was frankly disconcerting to them and made them uncomfortable because the way he looked at them like he knew things. I swear he looked at me this way, too... and he did know things -- things I'll never know. He was an old soul, and possibly even a reincarnation of someone important. (And I don't even believe in reincarnation!) He was smarter than any cat I've ever met... and more stubborn.

There was a time when I berated Tony verbally, loudly, and at length for some indiscretion. I can't even remember what it was now. The following is completely true: I hurt his feelings. He refused to acknowledge me -- this, my companion, comforter, and baby -- for no less than two days, until after I sat down with him and apologized for what I said and for hurting his feelings. He gazed at me with what started out as disapproval and melted into understanding and forgiveness; that was the last of the silent treatment from him.

While he wasn't effusive in his attentions to Evan, it was his dignified companionship and tolerant personality that we adored.

He was accepting and affable, willing to put up with most situations.

For six years he was part of my family. And then he became sick. We didn't know with what -- my hands and finances were full with a baby and a progressive (although yet unrealized) fibromyalgia. I still feel guilty I didn't give him the attention he required. Whatever he had, he resembled an old man with dementia.

He forgot things. His personality changed. His agreeable tendencies quickly became irascibleness. But it came and went, so I let it go.

Until he got really bad. He was so bad I couldn't get anyone to take him, and I did the unthinkable. I took him to the vet, held his paw, and watched him go peacefully to sleep. In his final moments, he relaxed like he hadn't in months and just looked at me. His fading gaze held no condemnation for me, only understanding.

And so, standing by his stones in the backyard, realizing I'm leaving him for good, it hit me like a blast of icy air in my bones. For the first time since I started the leaving process I cried.

For Tony.