Harley

It's 5 degrees and snowy outside. I'm sitting on the couch with Corbin, coffee in hand, watching Sid the Science Kid. Beef stew in the crock pot smelling up the house. Normally, this is the kind of day I dream of. But today I'm feeling melancholy. I still miss my buddy.

I was doing well for a couple days, but as I was looking through Christmas pictures last night to upload to Shutterfly for my 101 (not so) free prints, I succumbed to the temptation to click on that folder called "pets." There were subfolders with each pet's name. I hesitated, knowing good and well what the end result of my emotional state would be, then opened the file.

I've never so badly wanted to reach through the screen and touch something. I put my fingers on his picture and tears started falling. I missed seeing his sweet face.

And before you scoff, roll your eyes, or look at me very perplexed, please try to understand what it's like. I was this creature's mama from the time he was 4 weeks old. In fact, he was my first experience getting up in the middle of the night to feed a tiny baby. We've been through a lot together these past 4 years. A handful of events stand out in particular, but mostly he was my loyal companion, present through life's uneventful moments, whether we were outside grilling or inside watching a movie on the couch. His loud purr always gave away his best hiding spot. He was the most affectionate, intuitive, gentle, and docile cat I've ever seen. Gentle giant. He was huge. He could knock you down trying to beat you to the kitchen when it was time to fill his bowl. No, I didn't just bury a cat. I buried devotion, laughter, love, and life experiences all attached to that silky black feline.

The worst part, aside from missing him in the present, is wondering if I'll ever see him again. Do pets go to heaven? I don't know. Will my earthly furry companions be part of my reward and happiness when I'm in heaven? I wish I knew for sure, but I certainly hope so. I'm not saying I know better than God, but I think if I gave humans the ability to love an animal companion like this, I would have at least given them some sort of memo in regards to their afterlife. You know, like some sort of disclaimer as to what you're getting yourself into when you adopt that tiny kitten or puppy 20, 10, or in my case, 4 1/2 years down the road.

Eventually life will even out again and I'll go days, even weeks, without a tear. Then I'll find a tuff of hair, a picture, a toy, or some other reminder and remember why days like today just have to be. So for today, I'm allowing myself to be sad and grieve and mourn. If you're still reading at this point, thank you for hearing me out. Thank you for listening to what so many don't want to hear me say because he was "just a cat." But I know the truth. And I think he knew he was more than that, too.