Hurt and Humor -- That's How It Goes; Monty, Again

Again, this morning, my heart flipped as I thought about wondering if just maybe Monty came back to bed and his form was nestled in the bedding at the bottom right corner by the window, his usual spot. I always got excited when I thought he had returned to bed. It was a chance for me to steal some snuggle time. Monty liked his Pop better, so I had to grab any opportunity, and this was his concession to out and out cuddling.

Now in a state of consciousness, I remembered that Monty was gone. I found myself in the same position I had been finding myself the past dozen days. I couldn’t get back to sleep, despite feeling unrested, and I couldn’t make myself get out of bed. The night before, as always, I made my mental – sometimes actual paper – list of things I wanted to get done the next day. This has been my grief recovery tactic since my daughter passed a year ago. Now morning, I couldn’t bring to mind one reason to get up. Up until recently, it was always to feed my little black buddy.

I have three pair of black boots, abandoned in various and random spots around the house that I pass in my travels. At least once a day, I think I see Monty.

I don’t miss having a cat. I miss Monty, the individual. A meme on Facebook both articulated for me, and gave me permission for, those feelings. It said we don’t just lose the animal companion, we lose the relationship. At the risk of sounding like a horrible person, I think that’s why I feel so lost when I didn’t feel lost at the passing of my daughter. I felt loss then. Feeling lost is a different thing. Monty’s absence has left a big fat hole in the fabric of my daily life.

If the Trump administration (and now, in posterity, you know when this was written) has got my house wired and bugged, they’ve got plenty of ammunition to have the local authorities come and lock me up. Surveillance will show me walking through my day talking to a being that is not there. Most mornings, I greet “Monty” with a “Good morning, boy”. The rest of the day is filled with my narrative, asking Monty’s opinions, and pointing out cool things I think he’d be interested in. Or, when it’s warm and sunny enough for him to have gone outside – despite it being winter, or too cold for an outing, I comment to him on the weather consequences. Then I chide myself, “you are outside”. I take the fact the “good mornings” happen less frequently as a sign I’m recovering a little bit.

Here’s a part of the story you are allowed to laugh at, even roll your eyes. Not only is it okay, it’s understandable.

So, when the veterinary hospital ER employee asked what “after care” I would like, I chose to have Monty put in a sturdy cardboard kitty coffin, as opposed to being cremated. And so he was. He would be buried in the rock garden with the two brothers that went before him. At home, I had grabbed the blanket Monty napped on to wrap him in for the trip to the animal hospital, a really nice blanket that was a gift from a family member. It was the nearest covering to grab and it was his. (I regretted that move later on – the point of this next part of the story; it was a really nice blanket.) At the ER, Monty’s Pop asked would they make sure the blanket is wrapped around Monty when he’s placed in the coffin. It was.

When the three of us got home, Pop placed Monty under the Christmas tree. (I always told Monty the tree was his. “We’re putting up your tree, boy.”) There by Monty’s last tree, the two humans had our “wake”. When it was time to go to bed, I carried the little white box upstairs and placed it in the boot box which was set out in the living room – his winter man cave, of sorts, so the boy could have one last time there. Now, the production was moved to the bedroom, and he was placed at the foot of the bed, under the glow of the small tree on the dresser, for all the “one last times” that were his life with us. We would bury him the next day.

Sunday morning. I couldn’t bear the thought of going to church and I wasn’t ready for that final act that would remove Monty from us once and for all. So we went to breakfast. Back at home, we couldn’t put it off any longer and I finally had to spill my guts to Monty’s Pop. “Todd, I have something to tell you. I don’t want to bury Monty in that blanket.” Now, keep in mind, Monty and the blanket were wrapped and ready for the UPS. “That blanket,” I continued, “is velour. It’s made from a petroleum-based material. Monty won’t be able to decompose.” I explained, in my most gentle tone, that if Monty is wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t decompose, he won’t either. And that really bothered me. A low o-okay was all Monty’s Pop said.

So, seated in Todd’s recliner, I un-taped the box that was Monty’s coffin and slowly lifted the lid. “Don’t do that in here!” rang out the panicked voice, as a pair of hands snatched the opened box from mine and a flash of blue jean rushed out the back door. What was worse was I had let Monty have one last “one last time”. This one, to look out his window perch that morning while we were at breakfast. The shelf installed for that purpose was over the radiator. Which had been doing its job of radiating. Heat.  When I opened the coffin to change blankets, immediately, Monty was in the air. “I wanted to put him in something else,” I said.

Reconvened at the ring of rock bordering the garden, I watched as Todd, carefully and swiftly, tugged one end of the non-decomposable gray velour blanket from under and around Monty. Suddenly recalling a pashmina I hadn’t worn in a long time, I ran back into the house and grabbed my beautiful Kelly green wool wrap. Racing back, like time was running out, I tucked the bright green pashmina around my boy, re-wrapping him as best I could. One last act of mothering. Re-taping the box flap closed, we lowered him into the hole his Pop had dug in the garden, by his brothers, and by the bird bath he loved to get up on his back toes and drink from. I had to keep the water full to the brim, otherwise Monty couldn’t get at it – to heck with the birds. In tribute, and in case the invisible being I talk to ventures outside, I will keep it that way.

Speaking a goodbye, an I’m sorry, and an I love you, to the creature in my heart, thoughts, and daily conversation, I turned from the garden just in time to see Monty’s Pop carrying the blanket on a stick toward the trash can. It was a really nice blanket, and there’s always tomorrow.