After taking the day off yesterday, I went back to work today. I work from home so it’s not like I have a commute or anything, but having a home office means that I’m still constantly reminded of Stan’s presence (and lack of it now 😦 ). He would sometimes jump up on my desk while I worked, often getting in my way until I would lift him back to the floor, gently chiding him for his mischievousness. Sometimes though he would hop onto the window-sill beside my desk an keep an eye on the toings-and-froings outside. Today, while working, I noticed three or four of his hairs there on the sill where he used to sit. They’re still there now as I type this. I don’t know how to deal with them. Part of me thinks I should just move them away so that I don’t feel sad every time I see them. Another part of me wants to be reminded of his presence and that I should feel sad. They’re his hairs and are precious now that he’s gone. But this in itself is somewhat silly as I’ve already tucked a small tuft of his fur into my phone case and, while it makes me feel bad to say so, they’re just hairs – he didn’t present them to me as a gift, they’re just a few stray strands that fell from him while he sat looking out of the window one day.
I always find it difficult to let things go, especially small physical mementos like this. It’s not even as though we don’t have other things to keep to treasure his memory. We have his collar and nametag, his food dishes and his bed (themselves in some cases hand-me-downs from our other cats), countless photos (including a bunch of Instax snaps stuck on the side of the fridge), some videos, plus all the memories held in our heads and hearts. Despite this, the thought of disposing of these few stray hairs upsets me, as though disposing of these hairs is somehow disposing of his memory, which it most definitely is not.
I think that, if my wife were to read this, she’d tell me I need to stop dwelling on things like this, that I need to think of the happy times and start to move on. I know she is as upset at Stan’s loss as I am, but she’s always been able to deal with things like mementoes in a more practical and non-sentimental fashion. She’s packed up his dishes and other possessions today, washed his bed, and will put them somewhere safe in the event we ever get another cat one day. I’m glad she’s done this as, while seeing these things tidied away upsets me, it also upset me to see them just hanging around knowing Stan will never be here to use them again, and I don’t know if I could have faced packing them away myself, at least not yet. His scratching-post is still in the utility room and I know that this will have to be thrown away. He managed to scratch large parts of the rope-binding off it while sharpening his claws and it’s not something that can really be donated elsewhere in its current state (although it’s probably still perfectly good for claw sharpening). So this will need to be disposed of, and it will instil another note of finality to his time here with us and bring me further sadness.
Maybe he’s looking down on me as I type these things, making mental note of my promises to let him nip and scratch me for treats, playtime and cuddles to his heart’s content. I like that thought.
I know that this is billed as a film photography blog, but at this particular time I feel I need to talk about how I’m feeling, both as a tribute to Stan, and also as a means of dealing with my emotions. He meant so very much to me.
Steel City Snapper photography 
You may go months or years looking for Stan in the corners. I sure did after my dear dog Gracie died. I’ve even moved house since then and sometimes I still expect to look down and find her sleeping at my feet. Grieve in your way at your own pace.
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Thanks Jim. That’s good advice. I’m not one to bottle up my feelings (when around my family, at least) in these situations. It doesn’t help to try and force a “stiff upper lip” defiance of emotions.
I sometimes have dreams where our other cats or my other lost loved ones will be present only to awaken with the sadness that it wasn’t reality and the painful realisation that they’re still gone. That saying about it being “better to have loved and lost than never loved at all” is a true one I think, but is certainly painful to bear when the loss takes place. But as much as it hurts right now, I’m glad that it does – it’s evidence of the loving bond that existed and continues to exist and signifies that we care.
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First of all, I’m very sorry for you and the rest of your family, about poor Stan. That is really hard, what happened. His leaving was quite shocking and sudden, that’s arguably the most upsetting way. It’s no wonder you’re filled with all of this contemplation and thinking about him. It makes perfect sense to be thinking and wondering so deeply through these things, it’s part of dealing with your grief. I went through a similar thing a few years ago when our dog died. there was no way on earth I could’ve imagined how it would effect me the way it did. I”ve read your posts the past couple of days with empathy and sadness but also with deepest respect and admiration for your appreciation of Stan and what he meant to you and sharing your thoughts so graciously. It will take some time for you to get used to him not being around, that’s for sure. I bet you’ll be having lots of little poignant moments like the hairs on the sill. maybe over time those moments will fill you with less melancholy and be more apt to put a smile on your face (or in your soul). Sending a big guy hug your way (or a pat on the shoulder if that’s more your thing).
-Jason
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Thanks Jason, I really appreciate your thoughtful reply.
You’re right about the suddeness of his loss making this especially upsetting, but it’s also the guilt I feel that I should have prevented this. I should have locked his cat-flap as soon as I came downstairs, but instead I started to watch a movie thinking he was still asleep in the house. I know that this sort of guilt is normal and a way to try and deal with the event, rationalising it in my head, but the thought keeps on lurking at the surface of my mind that it would have been so easy to prevent what happened had I been a more thoughtful person.
I’ve felt guilty at the passing of all our other cats too, although in all those cases it was because I felt I was somehow letting them down and not doing everything I could at the end of their life and that there must have been some alternative to that final trip to the vets, even though I knew it was the right thing to ease their suffering.
Stan was probably still at risk of what happened even during the daytime, when he was free to go outside as he pleased. The risk would have been lower due to better visibility, but still there, and I know I would have felt just as guilty had that been the case. I guess it’s a pretty common part of the grieving process – to punish ourselves over what might have been had the situation been just a little different.
You’re right about the melancholy fading over time. I know this will be the case, and he already puts a smile on my face – albeit a somewhat sad one just now, I look forward to the day when there’s more happiness in it.
Thanks for the hug. It’s nice to connect with people when feeling like this.
Nige
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