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Awww..damn. Sorry Panda. Having been through this a bunch of times myself I always get to the point of wondering if the pain and loss of their passing and missing them is worth having pets at all. But then you remember the joy of having them in your life and know that it is. After a suitable amount of respect time perhaps adopt a new kitty? They will never be PCK but they will be wonderful in their own way.
I've read along on your journal for a while, but never posted. So, so sorry to hear about PCK. I lost my favoritist kitty in the world last July, and while it still hurts, it does get better.
Take care of yourself. Don't know if you'd be into this, but every Monday night on Pet Loss Grief Support, The Rainbow Bridge Poem, Monday Candle Ceremony in the chatroom they do a series of readings in memory of all the babies who have passes. I hung out in that chatroom every Monday night for a couple of months, and it helped a lot. The website looks cheesy (think 80s), but there's all sorts of support and resources.
I blog about living life to the fullest at The Hairy Edge. Check it out! (Or not. We can still be friends. )
Hello Darling Panda,
I am sorry for your loss of Primal Coach Kitty. I have had many laughs, some out loud,(to the dismay of my work mates) with you over the past few days as I read **Gasp** all 1344 posts so that I could catch up on the journey of your journal. Now I am sad with you over the loss of your Kitty friend. May she wait for you at the Rainbow Bridge and be your guide as you enter Valhalla together.
Best wish to GP for peace in the home and heart. I have held off from saying anything as I did not want to be insensitive based on my own experiences. The cat I grew up with, Mourka, was always a crotchety old lady to me. I imagined in her younger years she would have been the kind to go prowling and pick up all the Toms. She was generally very laid back and put up with a lot of tugging and pulling, but always put us in our place with a sufficient claw mark when necessary. She had a tumor in her brain, discovered at around 10 yrs old, and lived to be 18. She would periodically experience some kind of seizure episode that would leave her running around the house and then collapse somewhere. She was usually okay after a day or two, but the last time it happened, she couldn't move her back legs anymore and appeared to have gone blind as well as deaf (she'd been deaf since the diagnosis). It was a very sad few days, watching her crawl away behind the couch to try and pass on. I told my parents recently about how upsetting it had been for me that we did not take her in to get put down and I think they felt very guilty for it! She was dear to me, a true personality in our household, and I am glad that you got to see your kitty off peacefully.
I know this is from quite an old post but I have a poo-ey neighbor too...she has two Bichon Frise named Oodles and Amigo. She walks them, lets' them poo on the grass across the street from my house....and sometimes, I kid you not, I have seen her put the poo filled tissues or leaves, whichever she can find, in the pocket of her coat. What's even more disturbing, is that she is a baker by trade. "The Bread Lady" Had to share.
Love your writing.
PART ONE: This morning Gay Panda is making bacon for one.
Thank you all for your kind words. I am so very, very sad about the kitty. Her first two years were such a rough start to life, chucked in a cage and forgotten there, but I remind myself that she had thirteen good ones after that. She was a creature of NOW, not THEN, so those two bad years of THEN didn’t matter very much when bacon was happening NOW. Bacon! It was like she won the lottery every morning.
When people or pets pass on, those left behind sometimes say that they had a dream of their loved and lost making a final visit to say goodbye. I was hoping for this, but I had an anxiety dream about my book cover instead. I know better than to try to attempt the cover myself. In sixth grade, my art teacher looked over my work and said, “Young Panda, be glad that art is not a required course in life.”
People squawk at her bluntness, but I was glad that she said it. I grew up with You Can Be Anything and We Are All Stars and participation awards, in which I was given a ribbon for consciousness. Realizing that I could be anything was paralyzing*. I could be an Olympic athlete? But I had no gift for sports! Then all I needed was to try harder, since I could be anything and we were all equal and what made the difference was practice. I could be the next Picasso or Mozart? We are all stars, after all. I believed that raw, malleable talent must lie in an unmarked box within us, and we just have to pick which conveyor belt to set it upon.
To hear that I sucked at something was liberating. As I struggled to choose electives in high school, I crossed art right off. I have strengths, but art (and music and sports) are not on the list. That doesn’t mean that I can’t enjoy these disciplines, but I should not pursue them as anything but interests. So I marvel at the cathedrals in Spain and turn up fated Amy Winehouse to lose myself in her fullness of voice, I admire the elegance of Olympic skaters, and I feel no loss that I am not capable of these things. My teacher could have worded that more diplomatically, but it is okay to tell children to play to their strengths. No, you can’t be anything, and you’re one of seven billion stars. Find what you’re good at doing and do it, and ignore the Special Snowflake Self-Esteem movement that shows no signs of dying**.
PART TWO: So Gay Panda hired someone who does have artistic talent to do the cover. My book begins with one of my protagonists waking up suddenly in a cornfield, having been at his job as a delivery boy one second and in the middle of nowhere the next. He has no idea how he got there, he’s wearing someone else’s clothes, and he has only minutes to find shelter before sunset when a deadly species of insect on his planet becomes active. I found a stock photo of a cornfield at an eerie angle and sent that to the artist for an idea of what I wanted.
And then I had an anxiety dream about it, in which the artist got back to me with six sample covers. I flicked through them in bewilderment, seeing image after image of Beavis and Butthead in a cornfield. In the first, they sat on a sofa amongst the stalks. In another, they leered at a busty woman in a tight pink top on a picnic blanket. They head-banged in the next. In the fourth they had started a fire, stood on their heads in the fifth, and threw toilet paper in the sixth. The artist stood beside me, eagerly awaiting my response, and I began to splutter. “But . . . look, maybe I didn’t explain it well. I write soft science fiction, and this particular novel is serious, not humor. Why Beavis and Butthead?”
ARTIST: Well, you said cornfield.
GAY PANDA: Yes.
ARTIST: Well, cornfield made me think of corn.
GAY PANDA: Still with you.
ARTIST: Corn made me think of Cornholio.
GAY PANDA: Um . . .
ARTIST: And Cornholio made me think of Beavis! Beavis and Butthead! Isn’t that brilliant?
GAY PANDA: I CAN’T PUBLISH MY BOOK WITH BEAVIS AND BUTTHEAD ON THE COVER! WHAT THE HELL?!
I woke up with a start. I would have preferred a dream about the kitty frolicking around Valhalla, but my subconscious supplied Cornholio instead. Even at post-life farewell magic to commune one last time with the spirit of my beloved kitty, Gay Panda fails. Cornholio. Thank you, brain.
** Long ago when I was substitute teaching, I took a job in a sixth grade class for a day. Having finished a book and bored during my free period, I started reading the schoolwork on the walls. One boy had written an essay called Why Self of Steam Is Important. He had not once been corrected in his numerous reiterations of Self of Steam, and received an A+++ as a grade. Gay Panda, who grew up in a very strict and academically rigorous elementary school, wanted to weep. Later, it became evident upon meeting the teacher that she hadn’t corrected the spelling because she didn’t know anything was wrong with it.
Cornholio!! OMG! What a horrible thing for your brain to do to you.
WolfCat has learned a valuable lesson today. DO NOT read Gay Panda's journal while eating lunch. There is great danger of choking from sudden laughter. The resulting offers of assistance from co-workers will disappear into demands for explanation. It is extremely difficult to speak while laughing and choking.
"There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls." - George Carlin