It's been a week. A very long week. A week of many tears. A week of realizations. A week of adjustments. A week of gratitude. A week of memories.
I process life through words. And so these are my words to try to grapple with the loss of a beloved friend. Yes, a friend with whiskers and paws. But a friend with a devotion for which I will be forever grateful.
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Zak was my insomnia buddy.
If I woke up in the middle of the night – as I often do – he would wake
up with me and keep me company on the couch, making the dark, quiet house so
much less lonely.
He was my morning lap buddy. A typical morning, Rob and I would
wake up and make our way to our living room.
Within minutes, our laps were filled with cat. Sarah would hop on and off Rob’s lap, as she
prefers snuggles in 10-minute chunks.
Zak would barely wait for me to get my recliner footrest up and my legs covered
in his favorite blanket before he would jump up and take over my lap for at
least a half hour.
He was my surgery buddy. He saw me through a knee surgery, a foot surgery, a hysterectomy, and two dental surgeries. He would stay close and keep me company. He was not fazed by the walker or knee scooter or fancy ice-water-pumping contraption. Truly, the only thing that seemed to bother him was my protective placement of pillows around surgery sites to guard against his 15lbs of TLC.
He loved his tuffet.
It is just a brown Sherpa blanket from Costco, but it was royalty to
Zak. He would sit on it by himself,
kneading it and covering it with happy drool.
But his most favorite…among the many joys he lived for…was to have a
person under his tuffet. Draping the
tuffet over your lap was a surefire way to have Zak join you for belly rubs and
purring. He loved to snuggle up in the
folds of the tuffet, demanding rubs and scritches. I often had to reposition parts of the tuffet
because it got all wet with his mouth dripping joy.
His tail was spectacular.
If he was walking, the tail was always…ALWAYS…straight up in Happy Tail
Position. His tail was tall and so very fluffy. It had a tiny crook in it, at the very
tip. Maybe a half-inch bent at a 45
degree angle. We have no idea when or
how that happened, but at night, if we were joined by Cat and weren’t sure
which one it was, we could find the tail and feel for that crook to know it was
Zak. That crook, and the straight-up tail
happiness reminded me of a drum major hat’s feathery pompom. So often, I would see just the top of Zak’s
tail walking behind a coffee table or over the edge of the bed and it made me
smile that Zak was leading a band of pure happy.
Zak was a big kitty (15 lbs.) and an even bigger personality. He was totally extroverted and loved people and life and toys and food and windows and blankets. He was a literally heavy cat but his spirit was light and playful and curious and eager for adventure. But he was also totally laidback and easygoing. We often said he was actually a big orange tabby in a black suit.
His paws were huge. He could catch flies merely by placing a pancake paw on top of the poor thing. He let us play with his paws, fingering the tufts of fur between the pads. And he was very accommodating when it was time to give him a pawdicure. I simply needed to let him sniff the nail clippers, then hoist him into my lap in a sitting position like a person sitting in a chair. I was able to hold each paw and clip his nails in less than about 3 minutes. He didn’t really like being trapped – he loved his freedom – but he was always an agreeable client.
As much as he sort of bulldozed through life, Zak was also polite. In the middle of the night, he would come into our bedroom and come to my side of the bed and gently meow with a hopeful expectation. If I didn’t answer, he would pad away and try again in a few minutes. If I quietly chirped back, Zak would excitedly jump on the bed and walk all over me until he found just the right position to let me rub his belly.
Zak loved belly rubs.
To the point that if he was laying on his side and you tried to pet him,
he would twist and contort and snatch your hand between his front paws to trap
them over his tummy. Never with claws
and never with aggression, but always with determination and instruction.
He was a toy hog. If
we were playing with Sarah, Zak would decide that her toy must be better than
his so he would simply take over. We
found the only way we could play with Sarah was to either exhaust Zak first or
play with them in separate rooms. But
even in separate rooms, Zak would eventually get curious about all the fun playing
noises coming from the other room and suddenly Rob and I found ourselves
switching cats.
Zak was the King of FOMO. He loved life and people and didn’t want to miss a single thing. His Fear Of Missing Out meant he showed up whenever the doorbell rang or a toy was offered or a couch was audibly sat on or the door from the garage was opened or the treat canister was opened or one of us moved to a new room. Zak was always present, which makes his sudden absence so wrenching.
He was our greeter. Taking the reins from Brad, Zak eventually became Woodhaven’s Ambassador. If someone came to the front door, Zak would eagerly trot to the entry way and position himself on the carpet behind us. He would sit expectantly, eager to see who was arriving to say hello to him. He would always need to sniff a hand first, but then his head was fair game for anyone who wanted to give his soft head a greeting. I absolutely love Pam’s description: “When we would come for a visit he would present himself as lord of the manor welcoming his guests. Swiping a leg here a hand there with his most magnificent head and tail.”
Zak loved football.
And Fraiser. And The Brady
Bunch. And The Amazing Race. And Open Worship (Quaker-speak for communal
meditation). He loved anything that caused Rob and me to snuggle up on the
couch together for extended periods of time, Tuffet draped over me, my hand
ready and available for slightly distracted belly rubs and head scritches.
He was our dinner visitor when we ate in the Lounge. Usually about mid-way through dinner, Zak would casually wander in and position himself between our two chairs. He was never offered human food, so he wasn’t there for treats. He was there for attention. I would try to get a head rub in before he flopped down to present his tummy. Rob’s arms are longer, so Rob would be in charge of the belly rubs while I sat there and watched, smiling at our wonderfully goofy and predictable kitty.
We had a season…of almost three years…of poop. Poop outside the litter box. Poop on carpets in our dining room and bedroom and bathroom. Behavior that was a medical issue that took a long time to decipher. During that time, we worked diligently with our vet with tests and exams and diets and supplements. Our moods would rise and fall on where and when Zak pooped. We have a ream of monthly calendars tracking where, when, and who poop happened. We hired a Cat Behaviorist who enlightened us on the World of Litterboxes. For over a year and a half, we had five litterboxes in our house – including two in our formal dining room, one in our bedroom, and one in our bathroom. We were stressed and exhausted and frustrated and resentful. We had tough conversations and such horribly conflicted emotions. And then a desperate plea to God in the middle of the night resolved the matter in less than a week with the trial of a not-often-used medication. That medication gave Zak his quality of life back. That medication gave us our kitty and our uncomplicated love for him back.
We started Zak’s medication about one month before the COVID-19 endless season of quarantine began in March of 2020. Sooo many times during our extended staycation, I said out loud how grateful I was that the Poop Issue had been resolved before quarantine. So grateful that the four of us were spending long hours together in our home without my ears tuned for scratching on the carpet to cover up errant poop. So grateful that we were just happily hanging out together as a family, enjoying the gift of time and waiting.
He had favorite spots to sleep. The top of the circle scratching post in our
bedroom that was entirely too small for him.
Under the table in our Lounge, often when Sarah was nearby in her wooden
wine box. On the couch – either end, as
long as it was against pillows. On the
small guest room bed, snuggled up against the pillows on the right side. On the fuzzy blanket on our bed at the foot
of Rob’s side. On the comfy alpaca
blanket under our coffee table. On the futon in our study, forever covered in
black fuzz because he was the only one who used it. Recently the floor of our walk-in
closet, for no discernable reason. And always
in cardboard boxes. His favorite was a large Blind Onion Pizza box we got extra
for him, reinforced with masking tape at the corners to manage his girth.
A friend passed along a story about the connection between
pets and their people. The story said that
when we choose to bring a pet into our lives, we choose tears. Tears because it is very probable that we
will outlive our furkids and one day be forced to endure the searing pain and
devastation of their loss. When we had to put our beloved cat Brad down, I
cried for days. More tears and with more
agony that I have cried over people. But in the midst of the tears was gratitude. I realized that tears of sorrow are actually
a gift and a reflection of having given your heart to someone. Sobbing
uncontrollably is exhausting, but it would be so much more devastating not to
have any tears at all. Zak was deeply
loved, with wads of kleenex all over the house as unnecessary proof.
He was the Best Cat Ever and my buddy. I am devastated that he is gone. I love you, Zak. Thank you for choosing me as your person.
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