Sunday, 14 December 2014


Loss is something that everyone has to go through at some point or another, and it’s an unfortunate repeat character in everyone’s story of life. You can lose an object (maybe something like a lucky coin, shoe, a pair of panties...), a job, a home,  or sometimes even an important personality in your life (human or pet).

You can be having the most amazing high, and it will fuck you up:

It can also come to you at the lowest point in your life, that time when you feel you can’t really go much lower, and remind you that yes, yes you definitely can:

Loss is that horrible ninja, waiting in the darkness to pounce when you least expect it.

Recently I suffered a horrible loss and it has been extremely hard to deal with. It sneaks into my mind at the most awkward moments, and every now and then it eats away at the happiness I somehow muster up. Having been through extremely large losses in the past (my father died when I was 24), I know that in the end, I will be myself again. People say time heals all wounds, but it doesn’t. You learn to live with the damage, but it’s still there… kind of like a bad tattoo that you just accept because it’s in a place you can’t see on a regular basis:

The only problem is that sometimes, that fucker ninjas its way into your life again, and you feel the overwhelming emotion flood your entire being.

No, I did not get a horrid ass tattoo. Although I’d gladly have 5 of them instead of how I feel now. Unfortunately my loss was my cat, Monkey. He was the star of this blog:

this blog: 

and this blog :

He passed away suddenly at the age of twelve and a half.

You don’t really notice how influential something is in your life until it’s gone, and this has been no exception to that rule. The void I felt was immediate, and has been ongoing ever since. It is so mind blowing how you adapt your entire life around your pets, and adjusting without that influence there is the one of the most heartbreaking and difficult things to do.

The story of Monkey and I began when I was 18, and decided to be a rebel. At this point in my life, I lived at home with my parents (both my older brothers had moved out) and I decided it was time to be a bad ass. Most kids use this transition time from teenager to adult by experimenting with drugs, alcohol or maybe random sex, or the complete asshats use it to further their education and you know, make something of themselves. Me? Fuck all that, I got a cat.

I didn’t get just ONE cat, I got TWO. Tia and Monkey (Tia had just had Monkey and he was 3 days old, I got them off some toothless guy in Surrey for $40) were my apple box full of rebellious justice against my parents for always being there and supporting me. My young adult brain was convinced it was the most “stickin’ it to the man” thing I could do, and I got a cat (or two) out of the deal. Who doesn’t love claw and teeth filled fur? NOT THIS GIRL!

I smuggled my ill-gotten (legally paid for…) apple box cats into my house without my parents knowing and hid them in various places throughout the house to prevent my parents from finding them. I was 100% pro at this, stashing them in the sauna:

Spare room:

Behind a couch:

Yeah. I was able to keep my dirty secret for forever, all the while knowing that I smarter than everyone else in the house (which consisted of 2 parents and 2 cats, and then me) for a grand total of… 3 days. Then Monkey sold me out with his meowing that 1 week old kittens apparently do.

From that point on, I knew he was trouble, but I wouldn’t have changed him for anything (despite how many people I offered to sell him to).

The first apartment (NOT pet friendly) I lived in on my own, Monkey walked through a lid of mustard and left kitty paw prints stained into the counter (one of the reasons I fucking hate mustard). Because it’s mustard, there was no removing it. On final walk through when moving out, it almost busted me:

He also constantly stole shit to hide in my bed. Paint brushes, straws, those stupid suction flowers that you use on the floor of your shower (and waking up to the POP POP POP! Of him pulling them off the shower floor, priceless), everything ended up in the bed. This did lead to constant wet spots in the sheet, and ongoing paint brush purchases when you couldn’t find the hidden one (although you’d promptly find it once you got home with the NEW brushes).

He also had this habit of jumping on a high surface and screaming, and once he got my attention, he’d lock eyes with me, walk up to something on that shelf and just casually swipe it off.

Of course I’d pick it up and put it back, and about 5 min later, its back on the floor.

He stole food constantly and ate EVERYTHING, as shown here 

 Everything in the house belonged to Monkey.

He also would dig through my purse to steal my gum and allergy pills.
He did have some endearing qualities though. He played fetch (but only with specific toy mice, and drinking straws) and was very insistent when he was ready to play, you played with him. If you didn’t throw the mouse he brought, he’d find a new one and try to get you to throw that. It usually ended up with a pile of mice next to me.

He also had a habit of messing up photos that would otherwise be perfect:

Although to be fair, this was not a staged picture. I went to take the garbage out and came back and they were all like this. I’m pretty sure they were having a meeting on killing me in my sleep.

Sometimes he did it right:

He was constantly cuddling, constantly wanting hugs, kisses, pets, and just to be touching me, like he needed assurance I was still there. Whether it be a paw on my arm, his head on my hand, paw on the shoulder, he was always with me. Or passed out all drunk like beside me:

I won’t go into a lengthy detailed description of the 12.5 years we spent together (at least not in today’s blog!) but we had a bond. We grew up together, really. And he followed me throughout every single step of my adult life. Every move, every boyfriend, every breakup, every death.

When I cried, he’d be there, ramming his face at my mouth (which has NOTHING to do with when he was about 5 days to 8 weeks old I’d threaten to eat him and put his head in my mouth) and pawing at my face. The pawing sometimes had claws out, but I think that was just his way of trying to distract me from what was making me cry to begin with.

The day I got home after having him put to sleep, he wasn’t there to comfort me when I cried. When I make dinner, he’s not there trying to steal it. Tia makes a halfhearted effort, but she kind of just sits there then sniffs my food and goes and falls asleep. I still protect my food, but there’s no one there to protect it from.

I wrote a little song when I first moved out on my own with him (at the ripe old age of 19), and it was something I randomly sang every now and then, and he’d always come up. Now he doesn’t.

I’ve stopped singing it.

I come home from work and he’s not sitting on the counter waiting for me, screaming at me to give him food and pet him. Gir, Lu and Tia are still there every day, and they meow at me, but it’s not the same. And accepting it never will be again is harder than I ever thought it would be.

It’s been 6 weeks since he left us, and it still feels like it just happened today. The other cats have adjusted somewhat, although Tia still looks for him every now and then. Gir has formed a really weird relationship with a stuffed frog (non sexual, he just sleeps on it and demands to have the frog near him when he’s petted), and Lu leaves food for him when I put the wet food down (although he comes back to eat it a bit later).

It seems that it’s just *me* that hasn’t made the adjustment yet. Hopefully I will in the near future.

For those that have pets, cherish them. For those that have loved and lost, I am sorry for your loss. If you have room in your home, the best way to honour the love you’ve lost is to be willing to share that love with another. There are millions of cats and dogs (and other pets) out there looking for a loving home and your beloved pet will be proud of you for willing to give love to an animal that needs it.

I miss you, Monkeyman.

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