I received a sad message this morning from my ex. Our cat Billy, Bill, Billbillon, Billbilloni, passed away a couple of days ago from a kidney disease.
He was a lot more than a cat. He was a rare creature that brought endless joy and laughter to anyone who knew him.
I read the message over and over again, and my brain knew what it meant, but all I could do was to write back a “be strong” reply, delete the message like it never existed, and continue my day.
Early this evening, sitting with my eyes closed in the beginning of my yoga class, when you “set your intention” for the next 90 minutes, tears started streaming out. When I opened my eyes, my face was wet. Billy. Billy is dead.
It wasn’t love at first site. Not at all. I’m a dog person, always have been. Actually only German shepherds. Never cats. Frankly, pre-Billy, cats used to scare the hell out of me, partially because when I was seven I was haunted to read this scary story about how they had nine souls.
When I fell in love with a guy who had a cat, I had to adjust, but I didn’t know how to handle Billy’s presence, so I simply tried to ignore him whenever I visited the boyfriend up in Maine.
But every time I slept over he would come to bed in the middle of the night and sleep on my face. Now, if you know me, you know that no one in this whole world is allowed to wake me up, ever (!), unless asked, let alone a skinny little orange cat, a peculiar cross-breeding of a chirping bird and a fierce tiger (not to mention that the nine souls trauma didn’t work well with this particular way of being woken up…).
I didn’t know what to do. I was in love, and had to somehow come to terms with Billy’s existence. We had a couple of bonding experiences, here and there, especially when the ex left us alone for a few hours, but that was about it. Deep inside I was hoping that befriending him would make him stop sitting on top of my head every night at 3 am.
A couple of months have passed, and we decided to move in together. There was no way Billy was coming to New York City, I thought. Living with me under one roof was not an option.
I knew the boyfriend would not be happy about it, but there was no way I was going to live with a cat, doesn’t matter what cat!! (quite naïve I was, wasn’t I…?)
Needless to say, after one short fiery conversation, I learned that Billy was here to stay. Billy was not going anywhere. Well, he was, actually. He was moving to New York! And was going to live with me! Despite the million conditions I laid out (for instance: I don’t take care of him, his poop, his anything), I wasn’t happy about the situation.
And then we fell in love…..Billy and I. I was, without a doubt, his new mommy.
He became the most gorgeous cat in the whole wide world. He was irresistible. And I was proud to have him and to show him off.
Billy. Billy loved to talk (or chirp), and we used to have lively discussions for hours.
Billy knew how to play fetch better than any dog I knew.
Billy was obsessed with my banana bread. I can still see him now, attacking it right as it comes out of the oven, acting like a sneaky panther, chirping like there’s no tomorrow.
And…passionately eating brown rice out of Chinese takeout. And…my biscotti. And pooping. He really liked to poop.
He didn’t like our fights. Fighting when Billy was around was tough. He would come between us and then it was hard not to laugh.
Billy made me laugh at times when no one else could.
When we broke up Billy went back to Maine. It tore my heart, I wanted to keep him, but that’s how it works: even though I became his mommy, he belonged to my ex first.
I would get updates about him once in while.
Now there will be no more updates. Billy is gone.
But he will always remain in my heart, and my happy memories of him will never go away.
