I tend to be the kind of person who gives voice to the worst possible scenario; the darkest of black humor; the most dire of predictions (thus, I suppose, a stuffed Ebola virus being one of the best Christmas presents ever). The day before Nova was euthanized, I was joking with Erica about the possibility of her demise, and the joy of a catless existence, much to Erica's horror and dismay. I think, I hope, that Erica understands some people do this, I do this, to pull the rug out from under the worst thing happening, to make the world more manageable.
But I wish I could take it back, though Nova herself was a cat of dark humor, or so I imagine, and would probably not have minded my gallows humor, had she been able to understand it.
I find myself pausing out in the hallway before putting my key in the lock, hoping against hope that her previously annoying yowls will greet me at the door; that her previously annoying, stumble-inducing, ankle-entwining, fluffy little self will greet me upon entering my apartment.
It keeps on not happening.
I find myself glancing quickly at her favorite cardboard box, full of crumpled tissue paper, which I have yet to throw away, expecting to see her curled up, nose tucked firmly under paws. Or better yet, I keep hoping to be yowled at as I walk by this box of hers, one of her favorite activities, "heckling passers-by from the bleacher seats," as Chris and I used to put it.
I keep seeing the pile of yarn on the couch out of the corner of my eye, thinking first that it is Nova, second that I should not leave the yarn on the couch for fear of her inevitable lounging on top of it, third that the first is wrong and the second is no longer an issue.
It was in-between weather last Thursday, the day after I put her down. I'd had plans, or thought I had plans, to meet a particular friend for dinner that evening. I was playing down losing Nova, and declined another friend's offer to get together after work, only to discover at five o'clock that I really did want to see a friendly face, that I really did not want to go home to an empty apartment, and that the particular friend with whom I thought I'd had plans was nowhere to be found. It was raining, or snowing, or some unpleasant slushy mix betwixt and between. It was decidedly cold and windy and awful out that night. I walked down Broadway, and then down Central Park West, all the way to Columbus Circle, in this dreary, spitting weather, and found myself in tears much of the way, stumbling now and then, partially blinded by these tears and the rain.
I called my friend Dave, hoping against hope that he might be available for a drink, but there was no answer. I called Jill, who was on her way to a wine-tasting and couldn't talk long. So I went home, changed into dry clothes, curled up with a cup of tea and an afghan, alone on the couch.
Dave called later that night. He and his boyfriend, Josh, had been locked out of their apartment after work and had apparently spent the evening tracking down their landlord, drinking wine, and talking about me and Nova. And this is what they came up with:
Subject: Supernova ~ A celebration of life
From: David Bowles
Date: 1/17/2008 10:18 PM
"Nova was weird, but she was an institution." - Jill
As you may know, Emily's inimitable gray kitty was put to sleep this week. Losing a pet is really tough. Nova was a cat who, despite her notorious foibles, was a big part of Em's life. Josh suggested a gathering to celebrate her feline life, and I think it's a brilliant idea. Em's on board too, and would greatly appreciate your company. I'd offer our place, but we're living out of boxes. So come on over to Emily's place next Saturday, bring a bottle of wine or nosh, and a story or two about Nova.
We can all drink, talk about the cat, and then catch up or play Apples to Apples or drink more... because after all, Nova never liked being the center of attention for too long.
Saturday, Jan 26
6:00pm - whenever (not too, too late)
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