When we drove to pick up Sookie’s ashes, we took the scenic route from Oakland to Walnut Creek, up High Street through the Oakland Hills driving up and down winding mountain roads under a canopy of trees, listening to Tha Carter IV. The mood was light on the drive, I looked out the window a lot. The smoke had subdued that day, and it had been a long time, at least a year, since I had taken any kind of road trip. I called the office once we got to the parking lot at VCA Encina, and a minute later a vet tech came out with a small wooden box, walking from car to car to find me. I got out of the car and said, “For Sookie?” . She nodded and handed me the box, then I felt my mouth twist into an ugly shape under my mask.
I waited two days to “pan for gold” in her little box for the last time. It took me a week to scrape and wash her food dish.
I walk inside my apartment and I still expect to see her run up to me. I still expect her to hop down from the couch to rub against my legs and greet me. I catch myself and shake my head. I have to keep remembering that she is gone.
I notice a little black blob in my peripheral sitting on the arm of my couch. I look up from my laptop. It’s not her. She is gone. I get out of bed and put the black nightgown away.
I tape up a stack of envelopes, zines that I’m shipping out, and each strip of tape catches a strand of her fur, every envelope is sealed with a small remainder of Sookie. Maybe she rubbed against the tape dispenser at some point, or maybe I still have fur on this sweatshirt.
Almost a week later, I find bits of her fur in the sink, on the rim of my canteen, in my mouth.
I loved her very much.
She was my constant companion, my favorite co-worker, my favorite housemate.
She was my best friend.
She gave me more joy and love and care than she could possibly ever know.
We met in 2009 or 2010. I was 24 years old. I was new in a city where I had few friends, and I was living with a man who traveled for work frequently for weeks at a time. I was lonely, and I went to the San Francisco SPCA to see if I could find a kitty friend to adopt. I went in wanting a kitten, but I fell in love with a friendly little furry black cat who hopped out of her bed and approached the front of her cage when she saw me, as if she already knew me. Her cage was the last in the row. She chose me. I took her home that day.
We went through a lot in our ten years together. I don’t want to say that I became less selfish with Sookie’s guidance, but maybe I did. I had to grow up to be a good caregiver. And when she fell ill, I put everything else on hold to help her and monitor her. I preferred spending time with her to most other things, anyway, and I wanted to give back to her the unconditional love she had showed me in our time together. I wanted to be with her as much as possible because I knew she could slip into congestive heart failure suddenly.
I miss her a lot. I cry about her frequently at different points in the day, when I think of her, when I have to remember that she is not here. I don’t know why I’m writing this, except maybe to organize my thoughts.
When I brought Sookie’s ashes home, I put the little cedar box at the foot of her scratching post.