Wednesday, May 16, 2012


I have always lost something in my life, be it my parents when they got divorced, a dog I was given after my mom died and a cat, of which I chose on my own.  Comanche has seen me through so much.  Throughout my mother’s death and all.  He was the spirit who kept me going when I had little left to even think about hope for.  And, fucking hell, what do you think killed him?  The same thing that killed my mom.  Pancreatic Cancer.  He was misdiagnosed with Pancreatitis.  For most cats, that can be a death sentence if found too late, or a simple dietary change.  For Comanche, the evidence of his pain came from a simple belly rub.  He used to sleep with me with my arm draped over him.  I must have felt like a boa, but he loved it.  He settled in and got even closer until one night when he meowed when I touched his stomach.  Comanche was a pretty silent cat; he either purred or was quiet.  So, that meow meant something.  Off to the vet we go.  This is the same vet as the Comanche sagas of 2008.  Blah, blah, blah.  They said he was suffering from something, but they didn’t know what.  They gave him pain reliever, which worked, but at the same time he was starting to become reclusive.

.......And then a record skipped in my mind.  The above entry was written with careful words, poured over again and again.  They are a joke.  All I feel is anger.  Robbed twice in my life by some fucking disease no doctor can find.  By the time it is found, it is too late.  I am angry at myself for being in Florida dealing with family matters.  To return home and see your cat in exhaustive pain, ooze pouring out of his eyes due to dehydration, is just unbearable.  He was dying while I was gone and it makes me sick.  He had been there through it all with me in New York.  I got him in 1998 at the PetCo in Union Square.  His sister's story is something I will probably only write about when I'm near my own death, as I'm grappling with my own actions.  Yet, he saw me through many break ups, my mother's cancer, friends passing and going, a divorce, a new life in Ditmas Park.  

My hat always ends up on the couch.  These days, barely a week after putting him down, I keep imagining he is there.  But, no, it is just a hat.  

He was a perfect animal.

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