Yesterday, Truman, our beloved cat and the center of our little lives passed away. He had a bout of seizures two months ago but seemed on the mend, nearly back to his normal, goofy self. Sunday afternoon he came into the kitchen as Audrey and I were leaving and started having them again. We rushed him to the ER but they weren’t able to stabilize him. It has been the worst 24 hours of our lives.
We built our little life around Truman. He anchored it. He was our reason and excuse to come home. He was there, always.
We have lived with Truman for a third of our lives. His ungraceful, clumsy, and warm presence a constant throughout our post-college adult lives.
He was born in a barn in Midland and we drove up to his foster family’s home to pick him up and bring him back with us to Ferndale in November of 2009. He was so little but he got big and we loved that about him. He was huge.
Now he is gone. Our house is quiet without him. Not that he was loud, he wasn’t, but It is like our house knows that every creak of the floor or little thump will remind us that he isn’t here to make it, so it won’t make those sounds. Not until we are ready. Which we never will be.
We buried his ashes behind the back window. Where he slept and watched the birds. I needed him here at home with us, in some way. He was our home, and it is hard to look around it and love it the same way. It was his home. He spent more time here than any of us.
I’ve mostly worked at home these last two years and he has been my constant companion, always asleep in the armchair I keep in my room. I’d talk to him 100 times a day. At lunch, I’d protect my lunch from him and inevitably share my lunch with him. He was always with me.
Right now our house feels hollow, lifeless. I just want him back with us. It wasn’t enough time.
I’m going to miss him forever.