Biscuit Reynolds went to be with the Goddess one year ago. The anniversary is hitting me harder than I anticipated.
90% of deaths have some foresight, but our culture does a terrible job honoring death and preparing us for the inevitable changes in our lives. I knew from having experienced the deaths of dozens of loved ones, the grief process was inevitable, inescapable, and perhaps this one would be the most profound change of my life–no pets in my home for the first time in my adulthood.
I was afraid for me, actually. My mental health responds well to care responsibility (wow can I throw myself into the care of others).
I knew 2024 would be the year he would exit the realm, his body was clearly declining. Sometimes the shift from elder pet to geriatric pet is gradual but for my Biscuit Reynolds it was a fast and sharp shift. Before the shift I thought “I am going to need to get a pet ASAP for my mental health” and then when the shift happened I felt the settling in my spirit that I would know when it was time and to take some space.
He was always special needs. When I adopted him I could tell he was in some pain right away. Much forensic veterinary work later, he had a surgery that alleviated pain and blockage in his urinary tract through castration and he was on a regimen of gabapentin to manage pain from hyperaesthesia. (A painful condition of his skin that was why I kept his fur groomed short.)
As his elder care required more of my lifestyle coordination, he went blind and I had to keep our home especially clutter free so he could move freely. It turned out that the circumstances of the last four years of his life in our small RV home were well suited for a blind cat. He cared most about being in my lap on the recliner or lying on my chest when we went to bed at night. Or standing and staring at me, judging and overlording.
The bedtime rituals without him were the hardest to bear during the first few months. I remember wondering why I got so many more cards when my deadbeat dad died than my cat. I spent thousands more hours with Biscuit Reynolds than my dad. I actually love the relationship I have now with my dad’s spirit (I’ve talked about it on my podcast.)
I received a lot of care and concern when Biscuit Reynolds passed because I asked for it, but also not as much as the passing of my father. It made me more determined to show up for my friends when they lose their pets/familiars.
I spent the first few months after Biscuit Reynolds died not cleaning my house and letting clutter pile up. A caregiver exhale. A grief fog. I let it take months to move his scratching post away from the front door.
I have since cleaned my house but I do still have his clothes in the closet–not yet ready to take those to storage.
I looked for signs from him and immediately received them. I get them all the time. He’s shown up in dreams and I get messages from him and I feel confident he is planning to reincarnate with me again in this lifetime (not as a cat, I think he hated being a cat, actually, but he knew how much I love squishy faced cats).
This week hit me harder than I thought. Typically death anniversaries don’t trip me up. It’s people’s birthdays that do it, or seasons of time. But grief is a mercurial mistress and one must expect the unexpected.
Of course his death anniversary is a powerful Leo full moon. The other day as I was tromping through fresh fallen snow in Gay Gardens, where he spent so much time wandering around, I saw a line of paw prints that didn’t originate or end anywhere. Too small to be raccoon. I realized it must be Biscuit Reynolds. (I don’t gaslight my intuition. I just believe it–who does it hurt for me to believe I’m seeing a sign from my dead cat? Love is infinite and love lives on.)
This morning I woke up and for some reason noticed a snot globber in the fold of a curtain. Biscuit Reynolds would sneeze and his snot would just be like Ron Weasley’s slugs landing all over the place.
I am not the best homemaker but things aren’t terrible in here. Yet somehow I just hadn’t noticed until today this lingering crusty snot globber from my gross little guy. (He was kind of like living with a tiny furry frat guy.)
And when I lost my dad and when I lost Biscuit Reynolds I said “In lieu of flowers, please send cookies.” And when I went to the post office today I had a gift box of Girl Scout cookies waiting for me. From my bestie Spunky (I think–there’s no card) nudged by my beloved cat in the ancestral realm.
He’s still here for me in his own way, and I know he is nearer than my breath and right in my thoughts with me.
I have been looking back on this time in 2017 for inspiration from how I dealt with the first unknowable doom filled days of the Dump administration. And I keep looking at those pics when I had both of my beloved pets and a vibrant supportive love relationship in a city I loved. Losing my Grandmother was hard but I was surrounded by so much support. I didn’t have any idea how good I had it.
I hope this experience of a year with no one else in my household, doing life interminably solo, this profound loneliness helps me expand the gratitude when I do have pets again, more body fluids to clean up and bossy meows and ruffs.
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