Ranger died today while I was at school. I dug most of his grave under a break in the clouds with the help of the little boys near the top of our sledding hill in our yard. I finished the rest with snow slowly falling around me after picking up Trevor from his rehearsal. He helped me lay Ranger into and cover him in his final bed.
My nerves are raw. My grief has the intensity of the sun. I cannot look directly at it for fear of getting burned. Instead, I take brief glances into it, looking at its edge, waiting for it to dull, knowing that it will in time. I wonder at myself. I know of others who are dealing with much greater grief than mine, but that does not stop me from sobbing at unexpected moments due to the loss of our pet.
Ranger was the friendliest cat I have known. We named him Ranger (short for the Lone Ranger) due to the "mask" across his face (although Zorro was also on the short list), but he lived up to his name with his adventuresome nature. He was perfect for our family, enduring our children growing up around him for over seventeen years. He would greet visitors at the door with demands of being petted, and claimed all laps as part of his kingdom (especially if he knew the person was allergic). At our last house, he would sit along the top of the couch and bat at people's heads until they served him with pets. He particularly liked getting rubbed on and around his ears, and would express his pleasure with a motorboat engine purr.
As a kitten, he was much more skittish, although still affectionate. He allowed Domino, his littermate (whom he survived by over three and a half years), to dominate the majority of their relationship, but he could give as well as he got in their epic battles. He was a daredevil who, in our home in Burr Oak, would continually jump across the top of the open stairway, sometimes unsuccessfully. Each failed attempt would see him walk drunkenly for a little while, but then he would go at it again.
We knew he was approaching his end. He had been acting his age for a while, but in the past week, he couldn't even jump up onto our bed--one of his favorite resting spots. Just the other day, I lifted him into my lap after he made an abortive attempt to jump into it. While he responded with his diminished purr as I rubbed his ears, I couldn't help but think that it would be one of the last times I would do so.
My sons are taking this better than me, but I realize that I knew Ranger longer than I know any of them. Even for all the times he caused messes, stole food, or was otherwise an annoyance, I would prefer to still have him living. My comfort is in knowing that whatever pain he was dealing with has come to an end.
Rest in peace, Ranger. You are missed.
My nerves are raw. My grief has the intensity of the sun. I cannot look directly at it for fear of getting burned. Instead, I take brief glances into it, looking at its edge, waiting for it to dull, knowing that it will in time. I wonder at myself. I know of others who are dealing with much greater grief than mine, but that does not stop me from sobbing at unexpected moments due to the loss of our pet.
Ranger was the friendliest cat I have known. We named him Ranger (short for the Lone Ranger) due to the "mask" across his face (although Zorro was also on the short list), but he lived up to his name with his adventuresome nature. He was perfect for our family, enduring our children growing up around him for over seventeen years. He would greet visitors at the door with demands of being petted, and claimed all laps as part of his kingdom (especially if he knew the person was allergic). At our last house, he would sit along the top of the couch and bat at people's heads until they served him with pets. He particularly liked getting rubbed on and around his ears, and would express his pleasure with a motorboat engine purr.
As a kitten, he was much more skittish, although still affectionate. He allowed Domino, his littermate (whom he survived by over three and a half years), to dominate the majority of their relationship, but he could give as well as he got in their epic battles. He was a daredevil who, in our home in Burr Oak, would continually jump across the top of the open stairway, sometimes unsuccessfully. Each failed attempt would see him walk drunkenly for a little while, but then he would go at it again.
We knew he was approaching his end. He had been acting his age for a while, but in the past week, he couldn't even jump up onto our bed--one of his favorite resting spots. Just the other day, I lifted him into my lap after he made an abortive attempt to jump into it. While he responded with his diminished purr as I rubbed his ears, I couldn't help but think that it would be one of the last times I would do so.
My sons are taking this better than me, but I realize that I knew Ranger longer than I know any of them. Even for all the times he caused messes, stole food, or was otherwise an annoyance, I would prefer to still have him living. My comfort is in knowing that whatever pain he was dealing with has come to an end.
Rest in peace, Ranger. You are missed.
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