Where’s my dead cat now?

Most of my family is still alive, so my experience with death is limited. My father died the day Trump was elected. (My cousin refers to this as “the asshole exchange.”) I wasn’t close to my dad. He was an abusive person and when you grow up with an abusive parent, you adjust. I lost him a long time ago. That was my adjustment.

But when my cat, Chuck, died it ripped my heart out. He was the most loving, supportive being I’ve ever known. He comforted me when I was sad and no matter how I felt or what I did, he was there for me — a constant source of emotional support — silent, non-judging, emotional support.

I didn’t experience unconditional love while growing up. I learned that from Chuck. He softened me. Sometimes I think Chuck made it possible for me to find my partner, Patrick — which is ironic because Chuck was not happy with Patrick’s presence, and he made it known.

Patrick is over six feet tall. Chuck didn’t even come up to his knees. One night near the beginning of our relationship, Chuck (who normally avoided Patrick) sauntered up and planted himself squarely in front of the chair Patrick was seated in, threw his head back, and roared. (Well, as much of a roar as a housecat can muster).

But I heard him loud and clear, and his message was straightforward: “This is my house — This is my woman — Who the ##$* are you?”