By Chelsea a.k.a. Wishkres
Angels of hope,
A rainbow in the sky
And a herald bringing joy through the darkness.
Help me find my way...?
Rated: PG-13
Author's Notes: A few of you may have read my poem "He's Gone" in the Original > Poetry section. It was about my two month old kitten, Lilbud, who died suddenly after being hit by a car. Unfortunately, that was only part of the possibly the worst few weeks in my life, and although this happened at least two months ago, I still can't get over it. This little writing, essay, whatever you want to call it is a tribute to pets everywhere, especially my little angels, Lexi, Rusty, Lilbud, Creampuff, Shadni, and of course, Buddy. I never was much of a poetry person, so I'm combining a few poems I did write with a few random quotes and my thoughts and memories of these special felines. I hope this serves as a message of hope and a reminder to pet lovers everywhere the love pets possess. I also hope this will put my heart to rest about them once and for all.
Part I
I wonder now, can I be forgiven?
How dare I ask? I can't forgive myself.
Is it so hard? I just wish I knew it.
Is it so wrong to be hard on yourself?
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"There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality;
and then there are those who turn one into the other." -- Douglas Everett
I was lost.
A person can only take so much. Sure, everyone suffers through the horrors of life everyday, but most can grin and bear it. A smile, and laugh, and suddenly, everything's okay again. Just like magic, absolutely incredible.
Unfortunately, "magic" didn't work for me.
I can't say when it all started. Maybe it was when I realized being "smart" wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Maybe it was when I realized that I wasn't the perfect angel, forever right and unconditionally loved. Maybe it came from finally understanding that our little fantasy worlds don't exist. We all learn that eventaully, but unfortunately, my reality check came much later than it should have. It was terrifying, finally having your entire view on life crash around you.
Whatever the case, I was lost and utterly humiliated.
I couldn't tell a soul about the way I felt -- how could I? All my life I believed I was someone extraordinary, and I was a total jerk about it. I was the top of the class, wonderful artist, amazing author, fantastic singer, and besides, I always got my way. I was perfect; my parents told me, my siblings told me, even total strangers would tell me that. When I found out that none of it was true, that my entire existance was focused on a lie that I wanted, no, needed to believe in, it destroyed me, big time.
You know what they say, the truth hurts...
So, I ask you, how does someone go from being perfect to a perfectionist? How does somebody go from feeling on the top of the world to not being able to look at anyone in the eye without regretting it for days after? I can't say how, only why, and besides, I'm not writing this to explain how people get their just deserts. I want to tell you about my angels, the ones who were there when I needed them.
Who says our helpers have to be human?
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"The cat has too much spirit to have no heart." -- Ernest Menaul
I love cats. In the past (before my parents made the "no more pets" rule), my family had many cats, so many that it drove everyone crazy. They had to stay outside, but my sisters and I dragged them into my gram's house anyway. After awhile, I guess it got to be too much -- too much what, I don't know, but it was probably "too much money" or "too much work." Who really listens to the "why" when you are told that you couldn't have any more "friends"?
I remember Oliver -- big, gorgeous, friendly red tabby. He loved people and had the most adorable meow. He'd rub up against you and suddenly flop at your feet, landing so hard the thump could be heard in the next room as loudly as if he was actaully in there instead. He died a horrible death... My explanation is that when my parents set out poison to get rid of the rats, he got into it somehow or caught one of the rats that had it. I don't know. He was sick for a month, turning into skin and bones, not eating, and there I was, stuck in the middle not being able to do anything. My parents insisted that taking him to the vet would be pointless; he'd die anyway, and they didn't want to spend the money. I tried to convince them, but they were right. He died, suffering the whole time. Nobody was there to comfort him and nobody was there for him, so he died alone.
I wonder -- is it possible for a cat to be heartbroken? I felt horrible when I heard the news, and maybe it was because I believed he was. He was dying, suffering, and he never knew anyone was crying for him. Nobody was even there to comfort him, it was the least anyone could do after letting him suffer the way he did.
But no, he was gone, and nobody was there. I wasn't there.
Maybe that was problem.
After Oliver, I pleaded for another cat. Maybe if they agreed and maybe if I didn't have the immediate memory of Oliver flickering through my mind for the past couple years it wouldn't have hurt as much. I'm not going to focus on "what if's" because unfortunately, it didn't happen. No more pets, no more cats, no more help. It wasn't like I deserved any comfort, being the horrible person I was.
Was it wrong to want help anyway?
I don't know how long this went on. I always walked around with a smile. My friends? My family? They never knew. I tried to go out of my way to be helpful, made endless promises, anything to make up for being a jerk. Unfortunately, all this made it worse -- I promised to do so much that I couldn't handle it, and I ended up lost in my emotions. I forgot the good times, and I could only remember death, sadness, regrets, pain...
And Oliver.
I drove myself crazy with virtual pets, trying to find a replacement for my feline friends. I tried web sites, books, and it even worked for awhile. But eventaully... eventaully, it's not enough. Eventaully, you can't rely on yourself to ease your pain if you are the one causing it in the first place. You can pretend, you can try, but it doesn't work.
Two years after Oliver's death, I saw kittens for the first time in a long while. I was lost, and finally, I lost it. I cried.
I didn't deserve them. They were adorable, curiousity shining through their beautiful blue eyes. There were four of them, all dark and tiger-striped. Two had long, fluffy fur. When I held them, they cried out, their meows portraying innocent fear and somehow, trust.
I loved them, and I couldn't let them go. I begged. I pleaded.
I won.
A few weeks later, we visited a friend's house where a bunch of strays roamed around. I got my little kittens...
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"They say the test of literary power is whether a man can write an inscription.
I say, 'Can he name a kitten?'" -- Samuel Butler
When I found out that I could finally get a cat, I spent weeks trying to think of the perfect name. I considered Annika, Star, Cassie, and Whiskers, but nothing seemed quite right. When it finally came time to choose a kitten, it was so hard. One was shorthair and tortoiseshell, playful and friendly. Another was darkish with stripes, longhair with a quiet meow. There was the male kitten -- longhair and solid black that I loved dearly but decided to leave behind. It took awhile, but I made my decision -- an adorable kitten with long, spotted, tortoiseshell fur that I couldn't let go of. As I held her, I knew in my heart that this kitten was definitely mine. They called her Sky. I called Alexis. My little Lexi...
I couldn't put her down. I was afraid she'd vanish like a dream, and I loved her. I pet her, I cradled her, I treasured her more than any gift I've ever recieved. Lexi was a sweet kitten who hated to be left alone. When we put her in the garage that night, her pitiful meows could be heard throughout the whole house. I loved her even more for that.
Apparently the rest of my family didn't, and for that I'm very glad. We went back and got the black kitten too, and my sister named him Buddy. I really didn't like the name, but the meaning was all right. Buddy, a messenger, a herald. Shall do, shall do...
Buddy and Lexi, Lexi and Buddy. Those two kittens were more suitable than I could have ever imagined. Lexi was relaxed and cuddly; Buddy was playful and wild.
I was happy.
They were like my children, anyone could see that. When seven week old Lexi slipped from a high shelf, I caught her. When Buddy had a less than friendly confrontation with my brother's beagle, Andy, I was there. They were my pride and joy, and I talked about them constantly. Since they stayed at my gram's, I couldn't see them as often as I wanted to, but all the same, I had plenty to tell. I took pictures, I bought them little toys, and I tried my best to spoil them the best I could. When they were six months old, I even took them to school to visit my sixth grade teacher, the one that always told me that I needed a cat. They gave me back what I lost, a friend, and something to smile about.
Lexi and Buddy grew. At a year old, Lexi turned into a tiny cat that weighed only five pounds. She was gorgeous; her fur had so many colors - red, cream, brown, black, gray -- that she reminded me of a feline rainbow. Her eyes were greenish gold. Her coat was patterned with stripes, spots, and ticking -- I never saw another cat like her. Buddy weighed ten pounds, and his long, midnight fur laid flat and shiny. Although his looks weren't unusual, his personality was one of a kind. Some moments he'd be nutty as a little kitten, other times he'd be lazy and relaxed. Adorable.
Buddy and Lexi, Lexi and Buddy. They were happiness, they were everything.
Where did it all go wrong?
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"I believe cats to be spirits come to earth. A cat, I am sure, could walk on a cloud without coming through." -- Jules Verne
"I hear and I forget, I see and I remember. I do and I understand." -- Chinese Proverb
All comments, reviews, et cetera are welcome since this is still a writing that can be improved. If it's cat bashing you want, go away. Buddy will frighten you away if necessary, and I'm warning you, he's a scary cat indeed...